


Tales From a New Body

by OffYourBird



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Light Bondage, Pegging, Post-Series, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-22 05:18:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 119,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13757121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OffYourBird/pseuds/OffYourBird
Summary: Buffy has been getting really good at dying; it's the coming back to life part that keeps throwing her for a loop.





	1. Buffy Reborn

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Elysian Fields 2017 Reunion Challenge.

 

The first time Buffy Summers died, her end was a pretty unfortunate footnote in Slayer history.  _Was thralled, bitten, and fell face-first into seriously gross water. Drowned._ As if dying so virginal and prophetically wasn’t bad enough, she had gotten offed by a  _puddle_. Unlike for the one after, she was fervently glad this death hadn’t stuck permanently. It was… sad. And not in the tearjerker kind of way.

The first time Buffy Summers came back to life, she was gasping from creaking and half-flooded lungs. But she was still Buffy. In fact, she felt stronger. More powerful. And incredibly pissed off.

After the fact, Giles speculated that her first death had somehow strengthened her Slayer side. Which seemed counter-intuitive, honestly, considering she was technically no longer the active Slayer. Giles then spouted something about her spirit recoalescing inter-dimensionally, as she apparently hadn’t had time to find her way to heaven (and, much later, she still couldn’t argue that fact—knowing much better what arriving in a heavenly place was like). Still, she kept getting lost in Giles's long-winded explanations about essence and soul transportation, so she finally simply nodded and let it drop. Research-girl was just never her forte. Anyway, she was alive, and that was that.

The second time Buffy Summers died… should have been the last time. If there was a heroic end for a Slayer, that was it.  _Took a swan dive off a hell god’s tower to save her mystical key of a sister and the world._  Death had been her gift, and boy howdy did she show up to the party with an armful.

Turned out the penalty for that was… life.

The irony wasn’t lost on her.

The second time Buffy Summers came back to life, she was still in her grave. Still Buffy, but with a nice side dish of depression, a splitting headache, and a very unbalanced checkbook. As if her life just couldn’t get enough of the irony factor, somehow her once mortal enemy became her only real confidant. And he was also in love with her.

She tried to ignore that part.

The third time Buffy Summers died… well, the whole thing was getting really old, at that point. At least it was a flashy exit, if not a very Slayer-y one.  _Performed really bad Broadway knock-off hit to evil demon under spell, asking for a reason to live after being pulled out of heaven. Burned up._

She really hoped  _someone_  was getting their kicks from this whole irony-overload shebang, because it sure as heck wasn’t her.

The third time Buffy Summers came back to life, she wasn’t Buffy Summers anymore. And that was a hysterical kind of relief.

She was a newborn baby named Morgan Elle Gallagher. Although she didn’t know that at the time. In fact, she didn’t really know much of anything for a couple years. Being an infant sort of had that effect.

Everything was just a blur of sensation, sometimes overwhelming, but mostly happily composed of a million hours of sleeping and eating and playing. She babbled all she wanted and no one expected her to make sense. No one asked her to make decisions. Hell, no one asked her for  _anythin_ g. They gave instead.

It was the nicest vacation she’d ever had.

The realization never quite formed in words (because, well,  _baby_ ), but it made itself known through wracking fits of sobbing and outbursts of absurd laughter, which every single baby on the planet was known for and so didn’t bother a single soul. But it cleansed her own soul like a charm.

Funny how a complete bodily reset could sort of take care of those pesky mental health issues.

Of course, she had a lot of conversations with herself about that. What exactly was new? What was old? Where did all the parts that were Buffy come from? (And wow, did she really wish Giles was around for all of the theory make-age). After a while, she decided it had to just be some version of her ghostly spirit, as it was obviously nothing physical. This body told her she was left-handed (which inadvertently made her think of a certain bleach blond with almost disturbing frequency), and her new taste buds were distressingly disinclined toward cookie dough ice cream.

Still, she was the same Buffy. Sort of.

She was also pretty sure there had never been a Morgan Elle Gallagher outside of her, as she was born roughly eight months after Buffy Summers died, three weeks earlier than everyone planned. Apparently her characteristic Summers impatience had bled through.

So at least she had few worries and only the tiniest bits of unsure guilt that she’d somehow knocked baby Morgan right out of her little body. The real question was why she was even  _in_ said body to begin with, which took years to uncover and even longer to come to terms with.

But, for most of the time, that wasn’t really her concern. For most of the time, she was a child. And, mixed in with a burgeoning sense of who she had been, things got a bit complicated for a while. She knew things she shouldn’t have known. Felt things her child’s body had no real understanding of (or ability to properly replicate or process). This wasn’t like her single previous experience with body hopping into Faith’s figure. That had still been a Slayer’s form; still strong and similarly aged and comfortingly impermanent. This was a whole new ballgame.

Buffy at last thought she understood what Anya had gone through—a much older being getting stuffed into an infantile body, where everything that made her strong and confident (and sometimes broken, and hurt, and dog-tired) and  _her age_  became bound up by all the physical trappings of being young in way that she’d never had to worry about before.

She felt awful for the ex-demon, after the fact. She sort of wished she could tell Anya that she  _got it_  now. And that she was sorry for being a bitch. After all, sometimes, getting talked down to like she was eight when she had all the memories and capacities of a twenty-something (she wasn’t really sure how her age was working anymore) was… disheartening.

And, just as Anya had obviously struggled to fit in, it took some years before Buffy reconciled that Buffy Summers was no longer a perky, Valley-born blonde adult Slayer. She was now an East Coast child with ruddy reddish hair, freckles, and dark brown eyes. She was a cute kid, in all honesty. She looked a little like one of the kids in the photos JC Penny would plaster all over their photography studios, tempting families with how adorable those overpriced prints could look.

She was, in sum, perfectly normal. And wasn’t that about the most ironic statement ever? Buffy Summers was now a normal girl.

Hah.

Still, getting called Morgan never really worked for her. Okay, it gave her wiggins on top of wiggins, if she had to be honest. She didn’t look like Buffy. She didn’t have Buffy’s Calling. She didn’t have Buffy’s friends or family or taste buds. And all that, she eventually reconciled. She got used to being slightly more willowy limbed, with desperately curly hair and silly pokey ears. She got used to being an only child (again) and having two very deeply devoted parents (Lara was a school counselor and Paul was a tax attorney). She got used to spending her days back in grade school and going to bed at 8pm.

She never got used to not being called Buffy.

Luckily, that was somewhat of an easy fix. She managed to charmingly ask for the ‘nickname’ at age three (when she still lisped so cutely) and her new parents had indulged her. By the time she was seven, they were trained. She was ‘Buffy’ Morgan Elle Gallagher. It wasn’t much, but it helped during the days where she forgot she wasn’t just a seven-year-old girl. It helped remind her that she was actually a thrice-dead Slayer who apparently failed the whole exam on how to stay dead.

She forgot plenty of times, honestly; as she dealt with playground dramas and multiplication tables and eating her broccoli. But her name always helped.

And the whole adult knowledge of the world thing helped, too. She didn’t have to go through the awkward pre-adolescent phase of not knowing how to do make-up or wearing the absolute worst pattern combinations and thinking she was being stylish or clever. And, to her oblivious parents, she was incredibly mature and well-behaved for her age, which gave her a lot of freedom. Way better than being a juvenile delinquent.

There came a time at age nine where she wondered if she was simply hallucinating her previous life. She’d sort of forgotten the vivid terror of a child’s imagination, where the most mundane adult statements could get twisted into something so strange that it kept her little eyes awake at night. And that was pretty easy to do, considering all the things she thought she knew and had seen.

So Buffy Morgan Elle Gallagher decided to research.

She found her sister’s graduation photo in the newspaper—they published them online now (and god, Giles was probably having a fit over how technologically advanced the world was becoming). One quick type into the search bar, and there was Dawn Summers, waving merrily with her diploma from Walter Peyton High School in Chicago. She must’ve moved in with Aunt Arlene. Huh. The youngest Summers—the only Summers now—looked mostly the same, although her long brown hair was chopped up to her shoulders and her face looked sharper. Older. She was still skinny as a stick, though.

More searching revealed that Dawn had become a student at UCLA and graduated with honors in Cultural Anthropology. According to her Facebook, she was now researching in Nepal. There was some young, bearded guy kissing her cheek who Buffy didn’t recognize.

After staring at the image for far too long, and feeling like a digital intruder into this life that no longer included her, Buffy bit her bottom lip and moved on.

Willow had a Facebook, too, as it turned out. So did Xander, although his didn’t show much, beyond that he’d taken a construction job in LA. Willow’s photo was just her, looking pensive. She was apparently in England these days. Photos of Tara were nowhere to be seen, and she didn’t have any accounts. Giles, not surprisingly, didn’t have any social media accounts, either. Still, some random newspaper article identified him as a museum curator in Bath, England.

They’d all left the Hellmouth.

And, surprise, surprise, the world hadn’t ended.

It was almost as if ripping her out of heaven had been kind of unnecessary. Oh, pardon.  _Rescuing_  her. Right. Her child’s mouth turned down into an angry moue.

Residual resentment aside, she had brief thoughts of contacting them—these figures who once been her closest friends and allies—but the thoughts were just that. Brief. In the end, Dawn was really the only one she seriously considered it with, but the idea seemed almost as bad as what the Scoobies had done to her: bringing someone back from the dead when they’d been peacefully laid to rest. Dawn had her own seemingly happy life. She’d grown up and moved on, like people were supposed to do.

Buffy was so proud of her.

Strangely, the one person she was still tempted to contact wasn’t a person at all. Spike. There was something almost disturbingly comforting about the thought of him. She wasn’t the Slayer anymore. No Calling. No sacred duty. No moral necessity to be at odds with the undead. So she quietly accepted that Spike had been her closest friend when she died (the most recent time), and that it had been an okay thing. That it had probably been the most okay thing in her life at the time.

Accepting that fact seemed to open some kind of dam, and she found her thoughts continually floating with thoughts of Spike. She thought about his infuriating, dogged inability to give up on what he wanted. And about the way his eyes crinkled up when he smiled. And about how he didn’t age.

She thought a lot about how he didn’t age. Heck, the stupid vampire hadn’t changed his hairstyle in twenty years. Chances were good, if she found him, that he’d still be just as she remembered (probably the only thing left from her Slayer life that could make such a claim). If he wasn’t dust.

 _That_  thought made her incredibly uneasy, for a whole slew of reasons she didn’t even want to consider, so she tried to avoid it.

As with the others, she looked for Spike over the internet, on and off for years, and never did find him there—although she stumbled across a William the Bloody fan site once. And  _that_  was just a whole world of weird. She still lingered on it, though, as the page had an illustration of her vampire. A poor one, but one nonetheless. The artist (a ‘fanggurl666’) had his chin all wrong, and his cheekbones not nearly sharp enough, and the stare of his blue eyes way too relaxed. Despite those glaring faults, she printed the illustration out and stuck it under her mattress to look at occasionally. And if she happened to bring herself to aching relief as a young teen by staring at it and imagining the deftness of Spike’s grip and the forceful softness of his lips, which she embarrassingly still remembered from Willow’s wayward spell so many years ago, then that was that. It felt way better than imagining Chad in her Algebra class, who had fumbling fingers and made her feel like a pedophile for even  _thinking_  about doing anything with a fifteen-year-old boy. Couple that with the lack of pressing need for exploration—that naughty desire to know what letting a person literally be inside her felt like—and her rioting hormones pretty much ended up null and void. Been there, done that, nearly had the world end, blah blah blah, vamp hos.

Needless to say, her parents didn’t have to worry about her losing her virginity in high school.

Buffy googled herself, too (of course). There wasn’t much, as she’d left the stage before the internet became the main place to archive everything (and wow, there was  _everything_  these days—except, of course, the things she really wanted to find). There was a single photo of her linked back to Dawn’s Facebook account, from 2006; some kind of memorial post _. To my sister_ , it said. Well, that was… vague. Not even an “I miss you”? Of course, Buffy had died dropping the bomb that she’d been ripped out of heaven.

It probably left some trauma.

Out of curiosity, she typed in ‘Sunnydale,’ when vestiges of her personal history turned up short. And her world flipped upside down. Sunnydale was a crater. According to all reports, it was a massive sinkhole eruption.

Uh huh. More like a Hellmouth collapse.

She found Faith’s name attached to the news almost by accident, in a random memorial snippet. Her sister Slayer had died in the shift, her body never found. Which meant the baton had truly passed on. The Chosen One—whoever she was—was now the only One again, and had never known anything different.

Nine-year-old Buffy exited the browser.

Then she went back to her coloring book.


	2. Scratching an Itch

Of all the things about her previous life and body, Buffy was a little disturbed to find that she missed slaying the most. The fighting part.  _Not_  the killing part. Okay, so the killing part was satisfying, too, with the dustiness and the victory and… crap. Well, she was a thrice-dead Slayer—being ten shades of screwed up was probably in the manual. Still, it was mostly the fight itself that she missed; all the rush and the power and the self-affirming knowledge that she was keeping someone (likely in the multiple) from ending up at the bottom of the food chain.

Buffy had taken being strong for granted back then, and let it drive a hard line next to discontentment. Initially because she didn’t want it at all, and then—by the end of Buffy Summers as the world knew her—because it didn’t do anything that she needed it to do, like pay bills or put food on the table.

Ten-year-old Buffy remembered that feeling with a sort of distressed laugh. Not only was she apparently normal now, she was also a child. Strength was  _so_  not on her radar.

Even so, the urge for a good fight never went away. She was usually careful to rein it in at school, although Tommy Morris totally deserved that bloody nose in the third grade. The gross little pincher.

Thank goodness her new family was fairly well-off and incredibly doting. Lara signed her up for Judo and kickboxing and—much later—Jiu-Jitsu (as ruthless Brazilian street fighting wasn’t really considered appropriate for a young child). Buffy Gallagher was a prodigy at all of them (she was pretty much the only one not shocked). She didn’t have the strength anymore, but now she was actually more trained and regimented than she’d ever been as a Slayer, having to trade raw talent for honed skill. Poor Giles. He’d worked so hard on her for so little return compared to what her much more handsomely paid instructors had been able to gather from her. Her most common compliment was  _she moves like she’s been doing this for years_. Imagine that.

Eventually, Buffy went looking for bumps in the night. She couldn’t help it. She knew they were out there—that there were nasty and dark and hungry things lurking just below the surface of the daylight world. The newspapers in Danbury, Connecticut were just as oblivious as those in Sunnydale had been, and just as telling. She read about “neck trauma,” “unexplained blood loss,” and even the classic standby of “wild animals on the loose.” Of course, Danbury wasn’t a hellmouth, so the baddies were pretty much of the standard variety and somewhat few and far between.

That was perfectly fine with her.

Buffy staked her first vampire in her new body at thirteen, and it was nothing and everything like it had been before.

She scoured the obits for a week before the right kind of weird death surfaced and, even then, it was halfway a toss-up. Maybe Clarissa Parsons really  _did_  get stabbed in the neck with a BBQ fork (and, wow, was that really such an often-used excuse?).

The hardest part of the entire thing was that she couldn’t sense vampires anymore. Once, when she had been at the mall with her mom just before closing, a female vamp had passed by, flashing nine-year-old Buffy her demon visage just to see the look on her face. When Buffy had looked properly shocked, the vampire had laughed and passed on. Buffy would bet dollars to jelly donuts that the vampire had no idea why that particular little girl was so distressed: Buffy, previously the Slayer for more than half a decade, hadn’t suspected a single thing.

The realization was humbling and unnerving in equal measure. A flash of awed pride went through her, thinking of all the people who had stood with her over the years, braving the same kind of sensory deprivation. It was hard to fight the darkness when you didn’t even know where the darkness  _was_. But her friends had done it time and time again, all the while lacking the sacred imperative that drove Buffy to the cemeteries every night without fail.

And yet… here she was, back once more. Sans sacred duty this time, but no less itching for a fight. There was probably something wrong with that picture.

Buffy ended up staking out Mrs. Parsons’s grave for three nights running, likely ruining her tennis shoes in the squelching cemetery grass. She was not looking forward to her mother figuring that out. Maybe she could pass it off as a gym class incident. Buffy winced. God, she was already slipping back into Slayer deception habits, and she hadn’t even slain a vampire yet. She glared at Clarissa’s grave, and nearly jumped off the headstone when a pale hand thrust up through the dirt. So that was a no to the BBQ fork, then.

Buffy scrambled to her feet with rising apprehension as she watched the fledgling vampire dig itself from the earth. The process took far less time than she remembered. Or maybe that was the terror talking.

It seemed silly to be terrified of a fledge, a creature that she used to wait for with near bored impatience. Fledges had been easy starter courses for the night. The Slayer-y version of a warm-up.

It didn’t feel that way anymore. Buffy was currently full marathon girl. Her heart was pounding in her adolescent chest, filled to the brim with adrenaline and the bright warning to flee. With great effort, she loosened the death grip she had on her stake (it was covered with carved crosses for extra protection; no sense in getting stabbed with her own weapon in this much more fragile lifetime) and took a deep breath as the golden eyes of the fledgling rose through the disturbed dirt.

 _Avoid getting hit. Stay out of arm’s reach. Don’t be stupid._  That was the mantra she’d drilled into herself for months, thinking back to her attempts at fighting while incapacitated under Cruciamentum drugs. Inevitably, the litanous voice was in a super familiar and  _oh so annoying_  British accent. Still, it sort of made her smile, and feel a little less alone.

Buffy was still wearing a half-wistful smile when the new vampire rose with a hungry snarl. That alone was apparently unexpected enough to make the fledge pause, and Buffy took full advantage, swinging toward the heart with desperate concentration. Sadly, the vampire wasn’t  _that_  stupid, and caught her arm with a dark laugh and a grip that was definitely was going to leave a bruise.

“What a nice dinner,” the deceased Clarissa said throatily. Probably way throatier than normal, due to all the grave dirt inhalation. Buffy still remembered that sensation perfectly. God, she had the weirdest things in common with her enemies.

Using the death grip on her arm as leverage, Buffy lifted herself up and kicked the vamp right in her throat. “Sorry, better stick with the chicken option,” she said, as the fledge released her with a pained howl. “I’ll just get stuck in your teeth.” She flung a tight right cross at Clarissa’s mouth for emphasis.

Well, her quipping was still intact, at least.

The fledge snarled at her, all attempts at speech apparently overridden by hunger and fury. Buffy scrambled away, irritably checking the urge to flee after a moment of panic. She wasn’t super-strength girl anymore, but she wasn’t exactly helpless. Heck, she’d accidentally broken her kickboxing coach’s nose last year with an over-powered roundhouse. Whoops.

“On second thought,” she told the enraged ex-Clarissa, ducking a snarling swipe for her face, “you could stand to lose a few hundred pounds. Have you tried the Stake Diet?”

A well-placed punch knocked Clarissa back a few steps, making the fledge unsteady enough for her legs to be taken out from under her. Buffy tackled the vampire gracelessly and plunged her stake in. Clarissa disappeared from beneath her with a very familiar whoosh, and Buffy dropped abruptly to the ground as her support turned to dust.

Okay, so it hadn’t exactly been pretty, but it still counted. Buffy picked herself up off the ground, dusting off her clothes with a grin.

She kept at it after that, but only about once or twice a month. It wasn’t like she had a Calling anymore, and the last thing she wanted was to lose the trust of her new parents. Because she got it now: parenting was hard. Trying to take care of Dawn while essentially being a single mom had stretched Buffy nearly to her breaking point and aged her in ways that not even slaying had managed. Which was saying a lot, considering that her profession had now killed her three times.

And, besides, she loved her new parents. Really she did. The new Buffy had Lara’s unruly red mane of hair, and none of her soft-spoken patience. Lara was quick to laugh, and had a penchant for Motown and living room dance parties. It wasn’t unusual for Buffy get off the school bus (and ugh, school was so not any more exciting the second time around), to find that Lara had beaten her home. Her new mom would take one look at Buffy’s tired face, hit the play button on the CD player, and tug Buffy into an exuberant dance routine around the living room while the Jackson 5 blared around them.

Sometimes Paul would get home early enough to catch Lara and Buffy swinging wildly around the couch, but he never gave into the same temptation, despite both Gallagher women’s efforts.

“C’mon, dad!” Buffy called one time, with a laughing giggle, as Lara twirled her around.

Paul backed away with raised arms, his tall figure keeping the appendages far above where a twelve-year-old Buffy could reach. “No way, Jose. These two left feet aren’t made for dancing.”

“That’s not what you said twelve years ago,” Lara said dryly, her lips quirking into a wicked smile.

“Gross, mom,” Buffy said automatically, but only with as much force as she’d once used when threatening a chipped Spike. A smile tugged at her lips—sometimes pretending to be a normal teenager was fun.

“My dancing shoes have been hung up,” Paul interjected mildly, before escaping to the kitchen.

Despite Paul’s supposed aversion to dancing, Buffy found him in his office one night, playing the air guitar while listening to the Sex Pistols. When she confronted him, he’d startled like a guilty kid, and Buffy hid her grin beneath a faux angry glare.

“When were you going to tell me?”

Paul blinked, bewildered. “Tell you? Tell you what?”

“That you’re a closet punk rocker.”

He laughed with a slightly red face, then eyed her thoughtfully. “Since when do you know about punk rock, kiddo?”

 _Since a vampire who was around for that scene decided to barge into my life and never leave_ , she thought with a wave of exasperated memory. The nights after her resurrection had found Spike chattier than ever when he'd joined her for patrol. He’d obviously been trying to respect her need for silence, even while being unable to contribute to it. So he’d rambled at her instead, and she found herself oddly grateful for the distraction. Mostly he talked about rumors around town, or an interesting demon he’d killed, or something else ‘work-related.’ But sometimes he either ran out of those tidbits, or he simply got tired of them. On those nights, he’d tell her about the things he liked—the perfect way to cook a blooming onion, or who the Dead Kennedys were, or about the new rug he’d picked up for his crypt. Things friends talked about. Sometimes she even found herself interested enough to ask a question, and Spike would look at her with incredible surprise—as if shocked that she was actually listening. But he never said anything about it, he just answered her question and kept talking. He was the only one who understood how much of an effort it was to simply be alive.

Buffy ended up just shrugging at her new dad in answer. “So, are you going to show me your CD collection?”

And so began the nights of father-daughter air guitar lessons.

Paul was a great dad otherwise, too. After spending his days at a cramped desk, he had a semi-annoying obsession of working with his hands. He taught Buffy how to sail and build a bench and change a tire, all before the age of sixteen. In the oddest way, she now understood Xander far better than she ever had before.  _Look, Xan, I know what a serpentine belt is!_ The nostalgia would hit her at random times… and then she’d remember that her friend had helped rip her out of heaven, and all the leftover affection would roil with betrayal and confusion and hurt.

Those times, she’d go hunting for vampires, need roaring in her veins. A feeling which really didn’t lend credence to the whole ‘normal girl’ scenario she now had going on.

At school after one such night of vampire stress relief (and nursing several new bruises), Buffy decided enough was enough. She needed to know why she was alive for a third time.

Her best friend Emily slid up next to her, wearing her ‘you better tell me what’s in your head’ face. They’d been friends for almost a year, after Emily took one look at her during the first day of ninth grade and said, “You’re old.”

Buffy had just stared.

“Your aura doesn’t look evil,” Emily had continued, unperturbed. “But it’s kind of weird.”

Buffy finally found her tongue. “Weird. Yep, that’s me.”

“Me, too.”

They’d been inseparable since.

Buffy gave Emily a look over her lunch tray, fiddling with a long lock of reddish-brown hair. Sometimes the color and curliness still took her by surprise. “You know that whole ‘past life’ thing I told you about?”

Emily nodded, chewing a french fry, blue eyes curious. “The thing you don’t want anyone to know about?”

“Yeah. I need to get some answers.”

Emily shrugged, blonde hair flying across her shoulders. “We can ask my mom about it.”

Emily’s mom, not shockingly, was a witch, but they’d never really discussed specifics. “Is she the ‘I steal my daughter’s body’ or ‘resurrect people for fun’ kind? Because, um, if so, I’ll find somebody else.”

Emily wrinkled her nose. “Eww. No, my mom’s a water witch.” At Buffy’s blank look, she added, “You know, she calls on the elements for power? It’s not totally white magic, but it’s not bad, either.”

Buffy considered that. “Okay. Your house after school.”

 

***

 

Buffy had met Emily’s mom several times, but only briefly. Mrs. Klein couldn’t read auras like her daughter, thank goodness, but Buffy still never felt easy in her company.

Listening to Buffy’s history, Mrs. Klein’s eyes grew wider and wider. Then she grabbed a spell book, with a firm, “We’re going to the beach.”

Apparently water magic was strongest when surrounded by water. Go figure.

“It’s a revealing spell,” Mrs. Klein said, as they stood waist deep in the ocean under the mostly full moon. “Whatever magic’s been laid on you will be shown through me.”

Emily’s mom started chanting in a voice heavy with power, and the water around them swirled against the tide. Buffy widened her stance into the sandy soil, trying to not let panic override her. She didn’t have Slayer strength; one good maelstrom would drag her under. But the water didn’t lead her down, and instead rippled around her in threatening benediction—her gangly teenage body apparently acting as the heart of the storm.

Mrs. Klein’s eyes turned blue. Bluer than Spike’s—haunting and dark. Her voice, when she spoke, was sonorous, deep, and old. “The price is not full paid, the spell left unfinished. The balance broken darkly, an eternal warrior has been made.” As the last word fell form her tongue, Mrs. Klein gasped for air, and the spell was gone.

The water went back to waving toward shore.

Mrs. Klein drove her home afterward, both of them sticky and damp from the salt water. “Whatever magic brought you back was dark,” she said with clear unease, “and left incomplete. And it was paid too cheaply.”

Buffy felt a bitter, sardonic smile pull at her lips. So Willow had screwed up a spell. How stunningly typical. Her mind flashed to the jar smashed by her grave; the whispers of Willow and Xander when they thought she wasn’t listening.  _But the jar broke… Do you think she came back right?_

Buffy frowned, looking out the dark car window. “So… the remaining price was for me to come back again?”

Mrs. Klein’s voice was troubled. “No, the remainder of the price was to be extracted with your death, thus returning the balance. Except the spell was interrupted before it could finish. There is a line that repeats around you.” She recited something in a language Buffy didn’t understand.

“Huh?”

“Let her cross over.”

Buffy shifted wearily, her young body weighed down with the heft of all her years. “What does that mean?”

“It means...” Mrs. Klein hesitated. “It means you might never stop.”

“Never stop? Stop what?”

“Crossing over back to life.”

Buffy stared at her in horror. “I’m going to keep dying and coming back to life?”

“Possibly.”

Great. Just great. Buffy crossed her arms across her waist protectively, fighting back furious tears. “So why this body? I’m just a girl now.”

Mrs. Klein was quiet for a long time. “No, Buffy, I don’t think you are.”

That took a while to sink in. Then something clicked, and she traced a slaying bruise with angry understanding. “I’m a Potential Slayer, aren’t I?”

Mrs. Klein stopped the car in front of the Gallagher house and turned to meet Buffy’s gaze, her now-again brown eyes soft with compassion. “The spell said that you were called back as a warrior of the people.”

“So?”

“So, I think you’re probably not going to stay a Potential.”

Buffy’s entire chest froze. She was going to have to be a Slayer for the rest of forever? Nights and nights of brutal fights and loneliness and loss, ending only with her early death? No.  _No._  She’d paid her dues, several times over. “How do I make this stop?”

There was a long silence. “I’m not sure you can.”

Buffy exited the car on numb legs.

 

***

 

It was a rough couple of years for the Gallagher family after the revelation of Buffy’s future. Coupled with teenage hormones, Buffy’s new feelings of existential terror and helpless frustration turned her into, well, a typical teenager. It was a convenient age to be, if nothing else. She threw herself into the idea of adolescent rebellion (Why the hell not? What did it matter, anyway?) and tested the limits of her doting parents’ patience. She turned briefly party girl. She got a belly-button piercing and chopped off all her long curly hair. She borrowed most of Paul’s punk rock collection and wore enough black to make Spike proud. And—once—she shoplifted a hairdryer. Unfortunately, none of it made her feel better. Really, it only made her feel worse, for causing her new and loving parents so much pain. One night she broke down entirely in Lara’s arms, sobbing desperately.

“I don’t know what to do. I didn’t choose this!”

Lara just held her close and kissed her forehead, her expression betraying that she was clearly at a loss, but had decided just to roll with whatever in the world was going on in her daughter's head. “Buffy, honey, life isn’t going to be easy sometimes. But you'll make it through, I promise. You are so loved.”

It was the strangest mirror of her long-ago words to Dawn, in a way that made her laugh even as she cried.  _The hardest thing in this world is to live in it._

No kidding.

Even feeling entirely screwed up and screwed over, Buffy still skipped over the ‘being a major ho-bag’ phase. Not that she hadn’t gotten offers, but the idea of having sex with a child still seriously ooked her out. After turning down one particularly cute boy (emphasis on the  _boy_ ), Buffy realized that she was now again the same age that she had been when Angel first saw her in her original body.

Well, wasn’t that realization just a pile of gross.

She’d managed to avoid thinking about Angel most of the time—the last time he’d been in her life, they’d met in a crappy diner halfway between LA, and had an even crappier discussion.

Per usual, Angel ate nothing, so Buffy had just ordered a cup of coffee. No way was she staying longer than she had to.

He’d stared at her with wounded, indignant eyes, clearly irritated when she refused to be the first one to speak. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t dead, Buffy?”

She shrugged, mouth forming a grim line. She had been exhausted from a day of getting yanked around by  _something_  malicious and utterly failing at holding down a new job. “I didn’t know you knew I was gone in the first place. When’s the last time I saw you? Mom’s funeral? Gee, that was a nice time.” She set down her coffee mug with harsh finality. “That’s all we have between us anymore, Angel: death.”

The conversation had just gone downhill from there.

She knew, nowadays, that something had gone down in LA about a decade ago—some kind of supposed gas main explosion that took out several city blocks. Which likely had involved her ex, but… it wasn't her problem anymore.

For now.

The reminder was a shiver across her skin. She could call Angel… and what? It hadn’t been a lie, so many years ago—their once ‘forever love’ relationship had been reduced to funerals and holiday cards. And if she was going to be stuck on some stupid mystical merry-go-round, she needed someone with a little less of the tortured-from-a-distance complex.

When Buffy turned sixteen and hadn’t yet gotten a telephone Call from above, she thought maybe Mrs. Klein was wrong. Maybe Buffy Gallagher was just a Potential, and that was it. And that was okay, too. More than okay.  _Hey, look mom, no early expiration date!_

The possibility helped soothe some of the shock, and Buffy found herself feeling strangely optimistic. She had a good life, with people who loved her, and the chance to do anything and everything she’d ever wanted to do. Maybe it was okay if heaven didn’t come around again for a while (she refused to consider the word  _never_ ). Maybe she was simply, finally okay with being alive.

Or maybe being in a young girl’s body was severely skewing her perception of things.

Still, the part of her that wasn’t newly remodeled—the part that had lived and died and loved and lost and fought tooth and nail to stay afloat… well, that part was lonely.

So sixteen-year-old Buffy Gallagher sat on her bed in her smartly decorated room (“You have such grown-up taste, Buffy!”) and pulled out the illustration that was now years old and tearing at the creases (the fan site had shut down, so it was all she had), and made up her mind.

She was going to find William the Bloody.


	3. Hunting Mr. the Bloody

It took her just over two years to find Spike. The internet failed her. Sunnydale failed her (with the whole collapsed into a gigantic crater thing). Angel failed her. Yes, she called him. It was a miracle she still remembered his cell number, actually. It was only slightly less of a miracle that he still had it—although it did prove he hadn’t dusted during the unknown trouble in LA.

To her surprise, however, Angel sounded like a stranger. He sounded older, which didn’t make any sense at all. But then, it’d been more than seventeen years since she’d heard him by that point. Her memory was bound to be a little faulty.

Angel answered brusquely, barely letting one ring pass by. “Hello?”

Buffy responded the only way she suspected would get his immediate attention. “Liam Angelus?” And god, she sounded young. There was no help for it. Her body  _was_  young.

The line immediately went warily silent. “Who is this?”

Buffy grinned.  _Gotcha._

“I’m looking for a family member of yours,” she said, very calmly. Her new voice was a bit more rounded than her old one, less with the perk and more with the sex kitten. She was totally okay with that. “Your grandchild, in fact. William the Bloody?”

Another shocked silence, then a very threatening, “I’m not telling you anything until I know who you are.”

Buffy chewed the bottom of her lip. She had considered briefly, beforehand, revealing herself to Angel, but had disregarded the idea nearly as quickly. Telling him anything would inevitably mean telling him everything and, frankly, she just didn’t have the patience for it. Not to mention, the last thing he’d want would be for her to find his grandchild.

“Just an old friend.”

There was a short bark of laughter. It wasn’t amused sounding. “Not too many  _friends_  who know me by that name. And you sound too damn young to be any kind of  _old_  friend.”

She sighed. “Fine, I’m a friend of a friend, if you want to get technical about it. But it is an actual  _friend_.” Well, ‘non-enemy who used to be your so-called destiny and soul chasing away perfect love’. But close enough. Buffy sighed and added—before Angel could interrupt, “And no, I’m not telling you my name. Or theirs.”

“Some friend. How do you even have this number?” The last was said with poisoned, bitter threat so heavy she half thought it would start oozing through the phone.

Geez, Angel. Take it down a notch.

“That whole friend of a friend spiel? It comes in the phone number variety.” Buffy rolled her eyes. “Now, do you know where Spike is?”

“Haven’t seen him in years,” was the terse reply. “Don’t call here again.”

The other line disconnected abruptly.

“A simple yes or no would have worked just fine,” she muttered, crossing off Angel’s name from her contact list.

In the end, she found Spike’s trail the good, old-fashioned way: by threatening the demon locals for information. Okay, so she wasn’t nearly as intimidating anymore, but… well, the crossbow helped. Thank god her archery lessons in middle school had necessitated that particular purchase.

The grapevine eventually led to Pittsburgh, of all places, which left her entirely nonplussed. What the hell was in Pittsburgh? The current Slayer? A dark thought crossed her mind as she wondered if Spike had gotten his third notch yet.

She sort of knew without even thinking about it that the Initiative chip was probably by the wayside. Try as she might’ve to believe otherwise in Sunnydale, she hadn’t actually thought Spike had no way of getting the chip removed if he’d really wanted it gone. She knew, with a belated pang, that he’d kept it for her—so she wouldn’t be forced into being his enemy again. Because, somehow and for some insane reason, he loved her. But she’d been ‘dead’ for almost twenty years now.

It was probably too much to imagine Spike wasn’t killing… but that was sort of the new Slayer’s problem, wasn’t it? Buffy wasn’t responsible for the world anymore, and she wasn’t stupid enough to think she could ever best Spike without super powers. She just hunted monsters to fulfill a deep-seated, constant need.

Not unlike a vampire, when she really thought about it.

Buffy went to college in Pittsburgh.

Getting to college was a strange kind of relief. It marked a solid boundary back into adulthood, a space she’d been halfway denied from for two decades as her body and emotions caught back up with her memories and mental space. She spent the first month of her adult life indulging in every kind of young adult behavior she could get her hands on—including losing her virginity to a senior year rugby player who didn’t call her afterward. But that was okay, considering she didn’t want him to. They’d both been drunk and the act itself had been almost literally unmemorable, which was exactly what she’d hoped for. The romance of losing her virginity had pretty much been ruined since that pesky ‘the world almost ended because she made a guy too happy’ situation.

Buffy slept with a few more guys after that, but none of it was anything to write home about. That, at least, kept par with her previous sexual experiences. Unfortunately. Even now, sans Slayer muscles, she still got called ‘wild’ and ‘forceful,’ which was… almost laughable, actually, in a ‘wow, maybe not being happy with so-called normal guys didn’t actually have as much to do with being the Slayer as she thought’ kind of way. Honestly, she wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but there really was no denying it, for better or worse.

However, that didn’t leave very many current options, particularly in the relationship arena. And Buffy wanted options. She was option girl Gallagher, she of the several black belts and a boatload of confusing emotional dissonance. The young parts of her were unbroken and hopeful, and all the old parts were jaded and impatient and lonely.

To their credit, the college guys did keep trying. Buffy had grown into her long limbs as a teen and, coupled with her lithely muscled form and a nice smile, she caught plenty of interest. Most of which she regretfully turned down. At one point, her new friend Katie just gaped at her in disbelief when she sent another guy packing during a college party.

“Seriously? He was so cute!”

Buffy shrugged and sipped her beer, wrinkling her nose. Twenty years later, and it was still gross. At least the chances of it being magically tampered with were incredibly low—a constant, pleasant reminder that she wasn’t currently on a hellmouth. “He kept talking about how he and his friends were going to skateboard across the U.S.”

Katie blinked. “So?”

 _So, I’m a forty-year-old reincarnated vampire slayer who finds that about as relatable as he’d find talking about the different colors of demon blood._ Buffy just shrugged again and set down her red cup. “I think I’m going to call it a night.”

But instead of heading to bed, she did what she did most nights after being a typical college girl: she pulled on a jacket, tucked a stake into the waistband of her jeans, and went looking for Spike.

A large part of her was worried that he’d taken off for places unknown since her last tidbits about him, but, well, he’d been here two months ago, so she had to hope for the best.

On the edge of campus, Buffy paused, debating which neighborhood to hit. Luckily, she had quickly crossed off the wealthier and more brightly lit communities, and she somehow didn’t think Spike would be caught dead in the hipster neighborhoods around Bloomfield and Shadyside. She’d checked Larimer last week, but it was getting more gentrified all the time. The new bagless grocery store alone was probably enough to send Spike fleeing as fast and far as his vampiric speed could take him. Bedford Dwellings was an easy, nearby option, but evidence of the demon community had so far been sparse.

Sighing, Buffy resigned herself to bussing across town to Sheraden, home of the gun shot serenade and number one vampire bite destination. Happy happy joy joy.

At least, with this particular route, there was never any shortage of fledglings for her to hunt. Sometimes there were too many, she admitted quietly. The vampires tended to roam in packs, and she’d nearly been made into dinner several times for her trouble.

“Not the best part of town,” the bus driver told her as he stopped, eyeing her college attire.

Buffy offered him a reassuring smile as she stepped off the bus. “I know.”  _Which is why Spike will be here, if he’s anywhere in Pittsburgh_. Stupid vampire.

Shoulders squared, she started her route through town, ducking into a few of the human bars that were Spike’s kind of seedy, and then—more carefully—slipping into the demon establishments.

She always felt like an animal at the zoo in the demon spots and, although she couldn’t sense vampires anymore, the overriding sense of the supernatural buzzed down the back of her neck in constant warning. Part innate Potential instincts and part simple human sixth sense for danger, no doubt.

At one of her stops, the bartender—a slim reptilian guy—gave her a hard look. “You’re just asking for trouble, girl.” He jerked his head to the side, to where several vampires were eying her with speculative hunger.

Buffy smiled and pulled out her stake, twirling it easily between her fingers. The vampires glanced away. “Not looking for trouble,” she said firmly, “just a certain master vampire. Bleach blonde? Lots of black leather? Heavy British accent?”

She was in so much trouble for a description if Spike had dyed—or stopped dyeing—his hair, but she hoped the black leather was still a given.

The bartender shook his head. “Not here.” He bared long incisors at her. “Now get out before you cause a frenzy.”

She didn’t have any better luck at the rest of her stops and finally found herself at the last bar for the night, tired and not expecting much. This particular hellhole was packed to the gills (somewhat literally), and Buffy shimmied through a cloud of fur and slime, barely daring to breathe in the close quarters.

She was almost to the bar when a burly yellow demon stepped in her way, grinning viciously through a warty face. “Well, don’t you just look delicious.”

That had, she noticed, come to be the general consensus over the years, from college boys to girl-eating demons alike. Gross. Buffy fixed her face into the closest thing she had left to a Slayer expression, stiffening. “I’m not on the menu.”

The demon just grinned more widely, slobbering slightly down his chin. “Says who?”

He had grabbed her before she could react, clawed arms snatching her roughly by the arms, sharp enough to pierce her jacket. She struggled against him furiously, fists flailing, but another set of arms drew up around her wrists, immobilizing them.

Shit.

“Think I’ll slice off your little limbs before I start in on the good stuff,” the demon whispered with a leer. “You a screamer?”

Buffy spat in his face, and tried to lift her legs for a solid kick, but the crowd was pushed right against her ass, providing her with about negative leverage. Not good, she admitted with rising panic.

A low growl sounded abruptly behind her, menacing and possessive. Oh, great. Competition. Now she was going to get fought over like someone’s last chicken wing.

“Hands off the lady,” snarled a cold voice, in an unmistakable British accent.

Buffy’s heart nearly stopped.

There was a brief pause, and then Buffy was flung carelessly to the ground, the back of her head smacking against the floor before she could save the fall. Ouch.

“Bit of skin like her’s not worth the effort,” was the disgusted rejoinder as her demon attacker retreated.

Buffy winced and started to lift herself from the floor, when a set of leather-clad arms reached down and hauled her to her feet. Blinking, she found herself face-to-face with William the Bloody.

For a long moment, Buffy just stared at him. Almost unbelievably, Spike looked exactly like she had hoped he still looked: bleach blond hair gelled back and his black duster obscuring even darker clothes and highlighting every inch of pale and angled skin. That stupid illustration hadn’t done him any justice at all.

Spike arched his scarred brow at her. “Ducks, you got a deathwish? This is no place for a pretty bird like you.”

Buffy blushed under the compliment, letting the pleasure of his words widen her mouth into a smile even as she sagged with relief over his presence. Spike was  _here_. She’d found him. Or he’d found her, really… and possibly saved her life, no less. Maybe he hadn’t gone back to bad, after all. Her voice left her in a breathless, giddy sigh. “Spike.”

His blue eyes widened, then narrowed a second later. “I know you?”

Buffy laughed a bit shakily, self-consciously pushing her mass of auburn hair back from her shoulders. “Yeah.”

He frowned at her. “Don’t look familiar.” He sniffed at her slightly as he brushed past toward the bar, swinging himself onto an open stool. “You smell human.”

“I am.” Buffy followed him to the bar, surprised when the seat next to him was promptly vacated. Huh. Apparently Spike had a name for himself in Pittsburgh. She slid onto the stool.

Spike motioned for a beer and ignored her until it arrived. Taking a long swig from the amber bottle, he turned back to survey her tightly. “Where do I know you from then?”

“Sunnydale.”

He set down his beer with a loud thump, his eyes suddenly dark and intent on her. A predator’s gaze. “That right?”

“Mmm.”

He huffed slightly. “Not terribly forthcoming with the information, pet. Do I need to pull some teeth?”

Buffy rolled her eyes, glancing around at the bar. The other demons seemed to be giving her a wide berth now that Spike was at her side. “You could ask me questions.”

He looked downright irritated at that, which made her grin.

“Don’t think I care to.” He waved her away, not even looking at her again. He never would have dared do that when she was the Slayer. She was too dangerous. “Why don’t you go right ahead and sod off now. Get tucked back into your beddy-bye all safe and sound.”

Buffy blinked at the dismissal, then took a deep breath and shoved it away. “I promise it’ll be worth it,” she said lowly, her voice heady with such promise that Spike’s gaze snapped back to her.

“Listen,” he said slowly, warily, “not sure what you’re after, ducks, but I‘m not into pulsers.”

She snorted. “You’re such a terrible liar.”

Spike’s brows rose nearly to his hairline and he leaned forward, black leather creaking. A hint of amber was in his eyes. “Little girl, I’ve eaten the likes of you for breakfast, lunch, and supper. Whatever you’re looking for, not getting it from me. Now sod. Off.”

Buffy raised a brow at him. “Are you done now?”

He stared at her in disbelief for a moment, then very purposefully slid into game face. When that didn’t even garner a hitched heart rate, he let the demon guise slip away and leaned back to laugh. “Well, I’ll be buggered. Right tough little nibblet, aren’t you?”

“I staked my first vampire at thirteen,” Buffy said proudly. It was somehow more of an accomplishment now that it was so much harder. Funny how her once daily grind had become a source of pride. “I’m no one’s  _nibblet_.”  _And that was Dawn, anyway._

Spike looked deeply amused now. And intrigued. Bingo.

He tapped a finger on the bar. “Alright, pet. I’ll bite.” He said the last with a smirk.

“Oh, you’re funny.”

“Downright hilarious, I’d say.”

Buffy rolled her eyes again, but her mouth was grinning. God, she’d missed this kind of banter so much. Except, it had never been like this before. Never so easy. He didn’t have any guards up around her. He didn’t think he needed them. But neither did she. The revelation made her stomach do a small flip. “Ask me a question.”

He pursed his lips for a long moment. “What were you doing in Sunnyhell?”

“I lived there.”

“Got out before the fireworks then, eh? Must’ve been a bitty thing.”

“You mean the hellmouth collapsing, or whatever? Guess so.”

Spike stared at her suspiciously. “You sure you’re human?”

“Yes. Not everyone in Sunnydale had their heads up their ass, you know.”

He relaxed with a chuckle. “Apparently not. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised, you being in a demon bar and all.” He paused. “Which is a right stupid decision, by the by.”

Buffy shrugged. “Ask me another question,” she pressed.

“Awful eager, pet. You leading me somewhere?”

“You’re the one choosing the questions.”

He threw back the rest of his beer and signaled for another. “Right.” He glanced at her sidelong. It was a strange look. Unabashed but still appreciative. None of the painful tension and hesitation and challenge between them that had always been there. But still a touch of heat. She flushed slightly and his lips quirked. “Well, then. Where’d we meet, ducks?”

“The Bronze.”

He raised a brow. “On your mum’s knee or some such?”

“Nope. I was dancing.”

Wariness filtered back into his face. “Just how old are you?”

“That,” Buffy said with a victorious smile, “is a very good question. Which answer do you want?”

His expression flattened. “The bloody true one.”

“They’re both true.”

“Then I want them both,” he said, with an edge of impatience.

“I’m nineteen… and forty.”

He regarded her steadily for a long moment. “Spell then, was it?”

“You could say that.”

He snorted and took a drink of his new beer. “You’re a bit infuriating, anyone ever tell you?”

“Used to all the time.”

He chuckled. “Must be due then.”

She bounced a bit impatiently on her stool. “You haven’t asked the most obvious question.”

Spike gave her another sideways look. “And you say you weren’t leading.”

“It’s still obvious.”

He sighed. “Oh, for seven hells. Fine.” He gave her a semi-patronizing look. “You got a name, ducks?”

“Two of them.”

He snorted. “Shoulda figured. Right. Out with them, then.”

“My name is Morgan Gallagher… and Buffy Summers.”

Spike stilled so thoroughly she thought he might’ve turned to stone. “What,” he said, with strange, deathly quiet, blue eyes boring into her, “did you say?”

“I said I’m Buff–”

But Buffy never got to finish the sentence. She found herself slammed against the top of the bar, a single hand tight around her throat as the other clenched against the wood, leaving deep indents. Yep, chip was definitely gone. God, she hadn’t even seen him move. His grip tightened and Buffy fought to gasp, her breath stuttering in her chest and her throat exploding with bright pain.

“Who the bloody fuck sent you?” Spike snarled.

Buffy beat ineffectually at his hand, panic rising as her vision started to blur. Silently, she cursed her ease around him. “Spike,” she croaked pleadingly, “please.” It was barely a whisper as her mind started to darken.

All at once the pressure was gone and she inhaled a gasping, bruised breath, sliding down the bar to lean helplessly against her stool. Tears welled in the edges of her eyes, pain and fear and anger racing through her veins. Spike’s shadow stood stock still next to her.

“You idiot, you could have killed me.” Her voice was shamefully faint. She glanced up into amber eyes.

Oh geez. He was pissed.

“Give me one good reason not to finish the job right now, you manky lying mingebag,” he growled, his ridged face cold as death.

She winced at the venom in his voice. “I’m trying,” she said hoarsely. Damnit. Lack of Slayer resiliency really sucked sometimes. “But we’re not going to get very far if you kill me.”

Spike’s nostrils flared angrily and he just stared at her for a moment. Finally, he flung a wad of cash on the bar and grabbed her elbow and pulled her out the door. He was holding her arm so tightly she thought he might break it.

“God, Spike, ease up,” she muttered. “Kind of breakable these days.”

He didn’t answer her, but his grip lessened slightly. Then he released her and she thought he had calmed down… until he slammed her against the outside wall of the bar, pinning her arms to her sides with a hurting hold.

“I want the truth, bitch,” he snarled savagely. “Tell me who sent you. And don’t you dare pretend to be  _her_  or else I’ll rip out your little lying throat.”

Buffy struggled against his grip, but it was no use. He was too stupidly strong, and she’d lost any kind of advantage. She took a gasping, half sobbing breath, both embarrassed by her weakness and furious with his anger. “This is so  _stupid_!” she nearly screamed, all reason fleeing her. “You dumb vampire! Do you know how many years I’ve been trying to find you? How much of this stupid new life I’ve spent thinking about you?!” She squirmed harder, all ineffectually. “Well, screw you! Shouldn’t have wasted my fucking time!”

The grip on her arms disappeared and Buffy slid down the wall into a half crouch, panting heavily. She furiously ignored the tears sliding down her cheeks, flinging them away with the sleeve of her jacket. Fuming, she glanced up to find Spike staring at her through unreadable amber eyes.

There was a long silence, broken only by Buffy’s pained breath (she was definitely going to have handprints on her throat) and the slight din coming out from the bar.

“Buffy,” he said finally, almost evenly, and her head snapped up, “wouldn’t come looking for the likes of me.” His expression turned bitterly amused. “If you were trying to be believable, that was your first bloody mistake.”

Buffy laughed soundlessly, feeling bruised and battered in every inch. This was almost stupidly priceless. “You mean that she’d go see the Scoobies. See Dawn.”

Spike nodded tersely, although she could see the surprise flashing in his eyes at the names.

“Ah. You forget,” she said softly, meeting his gaze, “that my best friends are the ones who pulled me out of heaven.”

He froze.

She smiled a bit crookedly, gaze drifting to the ground. “And it’s been twenty years, anyway. My sister has a whole shiny happy adult life. All the others have moved on. And… well, so have I, I guess.” She looked down at her feet, with a shuddering breath. “I thought… god, Spike. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, okay! I just... I knew you’d still be… you.”

When there was no reply to that, Buffy looked up to find that Spike had slipped back into his human mien, eyes wide. He opened his mouth and then promptly shut it again.

She sighed. “Ask me a question, Spike.”

There was a long pause, then, “We ever kissed, you and I?”

Buffy gaped at him. Well… that certainly wasn’t a question she expected. “Um. There was that time when we were under Willow’s spell.”  _Which I’ve imagined way more times than is healthy in the past ten years._  “Other than that? Once. In your crypt, after Glory almost killed you.”

Spike’s face grew slack. “Bloody hell.” He looked at her, almost frightened. “I never told anyone about that.”

“Me neither,” she murmured. She struggled stiffly to a straightened stand, using the wall as a support. “Ugh. Remind me not to let my guard down near a master vamp in this body. Much with the ouch. Fledges really don’t have anything on you.”

“’Course not,” Spike said almost absently. Then his gaze sharpened and he was staring at her again. “Christ.” He stretched out a hand toward her almost unwillingly. “…Buffy?”

“Here,” she said with a soft, relieved breath. Her mouth twisted into a half grimace. “Well, sort of.”


	4. What's Old is New Again

To her shock, Spike fell to his knees, duster settling around him on the ground. “Buffy.” His voice was barely a whisper, nearly inaudible, and filled with more reverence than she suspected most people had for God.

Buffy bit her lip and gave him a small wave. “Hi.”

Spike stared at her for a long moment, before his face contorted and he looked almost furious again. “How?" Some kind of distressed growl sounded from him. “ _How!_ ”

She laughed weakly against the brick. “I asked myself that for lots of years, only I was pretty hung up on the 'why' end of things. Long story short, it’s apparently a nice little consequence of Willow’s resurrection spell.”

He looked at her, aghast. “That bloody stupid, cack-handed bint!”

"Still not sure what most of those words mean, but it sounds like pretty much my first reaction,” Buffy said lightly.

Her levity turned Spike’s expression incredulous and uncertain. “You… how could you want to see me?” 

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

There was a long pause, then he said tremblingly, “I couldn’t save you. Failed you twice. Couldn’t reach you. Saw you jump, saw you…”

Oh. Oh  _god_. “Burn,” she finished gently. “You saw me burn.” She shrugged. “Don’t worry, it was pretty instantaneous. I’ve had paper cuts that hurt worse.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. She’d happily blocked out that whole ‘burning to death’ bit of trauma; if it had hurt, she no longer remembered it, and she didn’t care to. As far as she was concerned, that experience could stay locked away for the rest of forever, in the back of her head where all the really crappy stuff lived.

Spike choked out a ragged set of laughter, slumping further on the ground. “Sodding hell.”

Buffy stumbled over to him, intending to tug him to his feet. It was making her suddenly uncomfortable, him kneeling as if in prayer. This vampire who could now kill her nearly as easily as one might a fly. “C’mon, get up.”

He blinked up at her almost dumbly. “It’s not possible. Is it?”

She snorted. “Well, I’m here. And you’re here. So I’m going to go with yes.”

Spike swallowed roughly and sent a hand up to trail along her throat. She flinched as he touched the already blooming bruises.

“Ouch.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. He rose to his feet with leonine grace, looking uncomfortable and embarrassed. “Thought… yeah.”

She took a step back, shrugging. “It’s nice. That you still care.”

He chuckled humorlessly. “ _Care_? About lost the plot after you died the last time. Wanted to kill your bleeding Scoobies for standing there and  _letting you burn_.” He grimaced. “Not that I could have really done much at the time.”

She nodded. “Right. The chip. How long’s that been gone?”

“Long time,” he said shortly. He raised a brow when only silence met that revelation. “Not throwing a fit?”

“What’s the point?” Buffy sighed. “Not the Slayer anymore, Spike. Not my job.” She grimaced as she swallowed and her bruised throat jostled. “And I think we’ve just proven I can’t probably stop you nowadays if you decide it’s Happy Meal time.”

Spike was watching her very carefully, with the strangest expression. “God, Buffy. It really is you, innit?”

“I mean, I could go through our entire history together if it would make you feel better.”

There was a flicker of a smile. “Might.”

She returned the look. “Would you rather I start with my mom hitting you over the head with her axe or us saving the world together?”

He made a small noise in the back of his throat. She couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or a sob. Finally, he said, very quietly, “How about you tell me about now?”

She nodded. “How about you take me back to my dorm.”

He blinked. “Dorm? You’re back in school?”

“Yeah. Kind of had to do the whole grade school through high school graduation thing again. Gotta say though, not having a demon mayor try and eat the school was really a letdown this time around.” She shrugged. “Thought I’d give college life a second try, too, seeing as I never got to finish before.” She took an angled step forward and her breath hissed out as pain jolted up her ankle. Damnit. She’d apparently sprained something in her struggles.

Spike grabbed her arm again, gently this time, his blue eyes zeroed in on her foot. “Leg’s hurt?”

“I’ll survive.”

Spike’s mouth twisted. “I’ve no doubt.” And then his arms were around her waist and the backs of her thighs, lifting her into his arms as if she was nothing heavier than a sack of potatoes.

“Hey!”

He grinned. “Just buck up, Slayer. I’m carrying you.”

“Not the Slayer anymore,” she muttered, not bothering to fight. Besides, he felt too good. God, he even smelled the way she remembered, all leather and cigarette smoke and something slightly musky that was purely  _him_. She took a deep breath and snuggled into the soft cotton of his shirt. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Spike rumbled a small, disbelieving laugh. “Now you’re just flattering, pet. Don’t remember you being quite as chuffed about my presence two decades ago.”

She swallowed, letting herself sink further into his arms. Strong arms that she’d never fully appreciated before, because hers had always been a little stronger. “We were friends,” she said softly, “by the end. Weren’t we?”

There was a sharp intake of breath. “I always hoped so. Didn’t dare suggest it, though.” He sighed. “Being right chummy, we were… until that bloody Sondheim demon made us reenact Broadway.”

“I remember,” she murmured, flushing. She bit her lower lip. “You… loved me. Even then.”

Spike stopped abruptly, and she felt his chest still. “Course I did,” he said lowly, then started walking again, looking very determinedly over her head.

She fiddled with the lapel of his duster nervously. “So… any new ladies caught your eyes in the past twenty years?”

There was a long pause.

“Buffy…” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Why are you asking me that?”

She flushed bright red. After everything that had been taken from her, Spike seemed like the only real remnant left that belonged to her—the first her. Buffy Summers. Slayer. But even so, it had still been twenty years for him, too. And she wasn’t the Slayer anymore. She wasn’t even really that Buffy anymore. He wasn’t hers. “I don’t… I mean, it’s not… yeah. Sorry.”

She saw Spike’s jaw clench tight. “Right.”

Luckily for their embarrassed silence, they reached Spike’s car a moment later, and Buffy laughed in delighted surprise. “Wow. You actually still have the Desoto.”

Spike grinned, white teeth flashing in the dark. “Course I do. It’s a bloody classic.”

“Way more so now.”

“Gives it character,” he said gruffly, tugging open the heavy passenger door and depositing her on the bench seat. He climbed in the driver’s side a moment later, sparing her a careful glance as he turned the car to roaring. “Where to, pet?”

“Um, I’m over at Pitt. Holland Hall?”

Spike shrugged and merged into traffic. “Can show me when we get there.”

Buffy watched the wash of headlights flash across his face. “God, Spike, you look exactly the same.”

His lips quirked and he glanced over at her. “Vampire.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He shrugged easily, leather creaking. “Try to keep up the look. The Potentials and Watchers know me on sight. Don’t exactly care to dodge stakes just because yours truly decided on a wardrobe change. Could go for some of that bit of toff and tweed, I suppose, but I’ll be dust in the wind before that happens.”

Buffy blinked at him for a long moment, incredibly certain she must’ve misheard some of that statement. “Am I… If I didn’t know better, I’d say that sounds like you’re working for the Watcher’s Council.”

“Freelance only,” Spike said defensively. Then his brow furrowed. “Christ, you don’t know, do you?”

“Huh? Know what?”

“Council as you knew it is gone, pet. Blown up. Along with most of the Watchers. At least, the ones the bloody Bringers didn’t get.”

Buffy gaped at him. “What?”

He looked over at her again, grim. “Whatever’s going on with you wasn’t the only bit of fuckery from Red’s little stint at raising the dead. She upset the balance of the whole sodding dimension. This nice First bloke came out to play.”

Buffy felt herself blanch as memory flitted through her. “The First came back? Oh god.”

He chuckled darkly. “Yeah.”

“Is that why…”

“Sunnyhell went out of business? Got it in one.” He drummed tense fingers on the steering wheel, and Buffy’s eyes were drawn to the motion. He still wore a set of silver rings, including… She made a quiet noise of disbelief.

“Your ring.”

Spike raised a brow. “Come again?”

Buffy pointed to the large skull ring on his pointer finger. “That ring… It’s the one you gave me. I– I kept it in the bottom of my weapon’s chest.”

She saw Spike’s jaw clench and he looked determinedly at the road. “Yeah. Well. You died and I got it back. The Bit found it.”

Her mouth went dry. “Dawnie… Do you know what happened to her? I’ve seen some things online, but it’s not much.”

Spike made a small, offended noise. “Could tell you where she is this minute, likely.” He pursed his lips. “Promised you I’d protect her ‘til the end of the world. We’ve come bloody close a few times, but world’s still here, innit?”

Buffy’s head was spinning. “God, Spike. What the hell happened to you?”

The words poured out more incredulous than she meant them, but Spike just rumbled a laugh. “Look the same but not the same, is that what you’re thinking?”

“Um, to put it mildly.”

He was silent for a long moment. “Got used to the white hat bit. Decided to keep on it.”

“But  _why_?”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, not looking at her. “Why do you think?”

“If I had any idea, I wouldn’t be asking.”

He sighed and briefly met her gaze. “For you, Buffy. Of course for you.”

Oh.

He shrugged. “Knew if you were around in the mess after Sunnyhell, you’d have worked yourself to death to put things to rights. Figured I’d do it in your stead.” A brief smirk glimmered. “Being already dead and all.” The smile faded. “Was the least I could do, after being such an abysmal failure when you needed me most.”

Her eyes prickled with tears. Spike had been blaming himself for her death for twenty years? “You… that wasn’t your fault.” Spike didn’t make any kind of reply, and Buffy touched his arm. “Spike, that wasn’t your fault.”

His lips pulled back into a grim, bitter smile. “Turns out I’m much better at killing Slayers than saving them.” His lips quirked humorlessly. “Couldn’t do either with you, now could I?”

Buffy just stared at him. “That wasn’t your fault,” she said again, sharply. “If you want to blame anyone, blame the stupid demon who killed me.” She winced. “Although maybe not the who called him. God, I hope Dawn forgave herself for that.”

Spike’s face stilled, hard as granite.

“Spike?”

His eyes flicked over to hers, washed into amber. “Wasn’t the Bit. Harris called him.”

Buffy gaped at him, then—when it hit her that he wasn’t at all kidding—broke into humorless laughter. “How fitting… The friends who ripped me from the grave were the ones to send me back to it.” She swallowed, staring down at the dark leather of the seat. Finally, she asked in a small voice, “What happened after I died? Right after, I mean.”

Spike sighed heavily. “Well, after Rupert kept me from murdering your chums, chip or no chip—mostly by reminding me that you wouldn’t like it—the whole bloody lot imploded. Glinda never forgave herself for her part in the mess, and she and Red had a blowout. Rupert ended up dragging Red back to Merry Old to get her act together and Tara, the Bit, and I took off for greener pastures.”

“To Illinois?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Dawn needed family for the legal rot and her waste of a father wouldn’t answer our calls. I didn’t figure you’d want her to have a life on the lam.”

Buffy laughed. “You guessed right.” She sobered. “What happened to Xander?”

“He and Anya fell apart. Demon girl went back into the vengeance business and Harris went off to L.A.”

“And Faith took over the hellmouth?”

Spike raised a brow. “Yeah. You heard that bit?”

“Read about her death in the newspaper.”

“Ah. Yeah.”

There was a slight lull as Buffy directed Spike toward the residence hall parking lots. By silent agreement, they didn’t say much of anything else until Spike had parked the car and once again pulled her up into his arms, despite her weak protests. As Spike took the dorm stairs by twos up to the fifth floor, Buffy finally broke the quiet again.

“So you went to Illinois. How’d you end up doing Council things?”

He shrugged. “Stayed with the Bit for a while, then got a ring from Red asking me to come back to Sunnyhell. Turned out they were desperate. Girls fleeing the Bringers were flocking to Faith—Potentials, but most of them untrained, and all of them frightened out of their gourds.”

“And you went?”

“Tara and I both,” Spike said quietly, halting in from of her room door and setting her down so she could fiddle with the lock. “Granted, would’ve just told them to sod off if not for Glinda. Damn good-hearted witch. Saw the whole rubbish as her fault, and thought she needed to make it right.”

Buffy threw him an amused smile. “Says the vampire apparently now working for the freaking  _Council_  in my memory.” She frowned. “How is that a thing, anyway? Even if you did help out whoever survived, last time I checked, the Council thought the only good thing a vampire had going for them was the pointy end of stake.”

Spike shrugged as he stood in the doorway, looking in. “Times change, luv.” Buffy glanced back at him as she tossed down her keys on the desk, and he arched a brow. “Gonna invite me in?”

“Come in, Spike.”

He stepped in with a slow kind of caution, his usual swagger held back. She saw his nostrils flare as his eyes scanned her room. “Got a single, eh?”

She nodded wryly as she sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off her boots. “Yeah. Really didn’t want to deal with a roommate this time around.” When he was silent at that, she looked at him questioningly. “What?”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Got yourself a bloke, seems like.”

Huh? Then she saw his nostrils flare again, and flushed bright red. Oh. “Um, no guy. Just some guys sometimes, but they don’t stay—not that I want them to!—and… I’m going to shut up now.”

Spike chuckled and she saw his shoulders relax slightly. She hadn’t even noticed they’d been hunched. He finally looked at her again, his eyes examining her closely in the more revealing light of her dorm room. Buffy shifted uncomfortably, suddenly hyperaware of how very much she didn’t look like Buffy Summers anymore. “I know I don’t look like I did. At all.”

Spike just shrugged, a hand on the back of his neck as he glanced away. “You’re still gorgeous.”

She flushed again. “Thank you.”

He paused, and she knew her pleasant reply had surprised him. Obviously looking for a distraction, he started snooping around her bookshelf, back toward her. She heard an amused snort. “’Fundamentals of Oral Communication’?” He turned back to waggle his brows at her. “Why, you naughty girl.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “I’m majoring in communications.”

His mouth twitched. " _You're_  a communications major?"

"Oh, shut up."

“Ah, there’s the eloquent Slayer I know and–” He cut himself off abruptly and Buffy felt a little like she’d been punched in the stomach. Well, guess that answered one question. Spike no longer loved her. Check. The realization hurt a lot more than she expected it to.

After a moment of awkward silence, Spike cleared his throat and went back to examining her bookshelf. "Loads of literature here. You an English major, too?”

"Minor. I yell at the books a lot," she admitted guiltily.

"Couldn't imagine it any other way, pet," he said with a small smile. He thumbed one of her more worn volumes, one she knew was scribbled over violently in pen. "Looks like you've given the ol' Bard quite the what for."

“He deserved it.”

Spike grinned. “Far be it for me to disagree with a lady.”

Buffy eyed his teasing expression and bit her lip. “Spike?”

“Yeah, pet?”

“Can– will you stay here tonight?” Spike’s expression turned shocked and she flushed. “I didn’t mean…”

“Didn’t think you did,” he said evenly, turning and going to look out her single window.

She sighed. This was so much easier an hour ago, when he thought she was a stranger. All his walls were up again; needed protections for a Buffy who was never consistently hot or cold from one minute to the next, even though she’d only ever really been lukewarm at best. The other end of the dial was just set to frigid. Buffy fiddled with her comforter in thought.

Twenty years ago, she was vehemently in denial land about anything sexual with Spike. So what if he was in love with her (she wasn’t even going to get into not wanting to believe he was capable of such a thing… If being reincarnated had taught her anything, it was that a lot of crap she didn’t think could happen could, in fact, happen). So what if he was unfairly attractive for an evil vampire. So what if a spell had once made him kiss her like she held the sun, moon, and all the stars (and he’d told her with his tongue that he could take her there). She was the Slayer and he was a vampire. A Slayer killer, no less. That was the bottom line. The most she could ever let herself think of him with was friendship, by the end.

Of course, regularly masturbating to a drawing of him had sort of blurred the line through the years. But was she brave enough to say anything about how that particular line had changed? Did she even want to? Maybe he’d just figure it out without her having to… Buffy halted herself abruptly.

No, she wasn’t that kind of girl anymore. Lara and Paul had raised her better than that. They’d taught her to be clear with her feelings. To talk things out. To say things. It was a constant struggle, but they’d never seemed bothered by her reluctance and the years of emotional baggage that floated beneath the surface. By fears that really made no sense for a young girl in a well-adjusted family to have. Apparently, being a teenager went a long way in excusing weird issues.

But her own changed circumstances weren’t the only uncertainty in the room. She wasn’t even the Slayer Spike had loved anymore. The realization washed her with guilt.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, before she could stop herself.

Spike looked back at her with a frown. “Sorry? What in the bleeding hell for?”

“I didn’t tell anyone else because I thought it would be better. Because it’s been a really long time, and because I’m Buffy still, but not the same Buffy, you know? And now I’m doing the exact opposite to you and I’m sorry. I should have just let you be.”

Spike’s eyes widened, saucer large, and he immediately cut apart the five steps separating them, lowering himself lightly on his haunches to meet her eyes. “Buffy. No. I…” He swallowed roughly, raising a hand to brush fingers through her copper curls. “You don’t know how much it means that you looked for me.” He regarded her with something like wonder. “Even though I haven’t the foggiest idea why.”

Buffy stared down at her lap, feeling the burn of his blue eyes on her face. “Will you stay tonight?”

She heard his helpless sigh. “Yeah, Buffy, I’ll stay. Of course.” A pause. “Will you at least tell me why you even want me here?”

She winced at his uncertain tone and blinked her eyes shut. “I’m sort of afraid if you go now, I’ll never see you again. I know it’s probably not fair, but…” She looked up and met his eyes again, barely holding in a gasp as she realized his face was almost unnervingly close.

Spike tilted his head slightly, and she could feel his body nearly thrumming with tension. “But?”

Lara’s voice rang in her head, warm and gently chiding.  _Buffy, sweetheart, you can’t go around expecting honesty if you don’t give some of your own._  “But I want you,” she whispered.


	5. The Fundamentals of Oral Communication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a general note, I don’t regard the comics as canon; therefore, there’s a bit of history here regarding Nikki that doesn’t match them.

Spike froze. She watched stunned confusion crash down his face before he took control of his expression and regarded her with a carefully neutral mask. “Don’t think that came out exactly the way you intended it to, Slayer,” he said finally, in a tone of strained resignation. At least, she hoped the exhausted notes counted as resignation; because that would mean that maybe he might still want her.

“No. I said exactly what I meant to. I– I want you.” She paused nervously. “I know it’s been a long time, and that the Buffy you loved is gone, but–”

“Rubbish,” Spike interrupted her sharply. “You’re right here, you daft bint.”

“Mostly,” she admitted with a shrug, although his quick defense of her existence and his feelings for her—well, for Buffy Summers—sparked her chest with hope.

“Right. You’re here,” Spike repeated slowly. “Which makes this a bit of a head scratcher.”

“Huh?”

“You saying you want me.” He looked a bit wild-eyed as the words left his mouth. “Can’t blame a bloke for wondering where that came from. And after twenty years, no less.” His expression was filled with confused curiosity as he ran a light, questing finger across her cheek and down to the edge of her lips, leaving her skin tingling in barely-there sensation and sending her heart racing. “Point of fact, way back, you’d’ve likely punched me in the nose if I dared touch you like this.”

“Times change,” Buffy said a bit breathlessly, as he drew away. When Spike still looked dubious, she sighed. Apparently, he was going to need some context to even come close to believing her. Crap. She took a deep breath. “If I tell you something, do you promise not to laugh?”

He lifted a brow at her. “Know better than that.”

“Me or you?”

He frowned. “I'm not going to laugh at you, Buffy.”

“Okay. Well, I… I found an illustration of you a long time ago.”

He blinked at her. “That so?”

“Yeah. On the internet.”

Spike continued to look baffled. “Alright…”

“And I kind of might’ve gotten off to it,” she said in a rush. “A lot.”

Spike was gaping at her now, looking entirely pole-axed. “What.”

Buffy shrunk away from him, clutching her arms around her waist protectively. “I was a kid, okay? But I still wanted to… to do that… and it felt wrong and gross and weird to do it to any of the guys that were my age. Well, my new age.” She anxiously watched Spike’s thunderstruck expression. “Oh god, I shouldn’t have told you that.”

Spike appeared to struggle to regain his ability to speak. Finally, he managed a hoarse, “Why didn’t you look at some picture of Peaches or Soldier Boy?”

She snorted. “Because my sexual memories of them are so glisteningly happy?”

Spike furrowed his brow. “We don’t have any sexual memories, period, pet.”

“Uh, us playing tonsil hockey in front of Giles for the better part of an evening counts in my book.” She gave him a knowing look. “And, anyway, everything you do is practically sex on display.”

He laughed loudly, a startled, light sound. “Bloody hell, Buffy.”

She smiled shyly at him. “Told you, I’m not quite the same anymore.”

He regarded her unblinkingly for a long moment, then he did that stupidly sexy thing with his tongue behind his teeth, his eyes darkening. “Can’t say I mind.”

“No?”

His smirk widened. “No.”

Still, he didn’t move, and Buffy realized she was going to have to take the initiative if anything better than the memory of decades-old kisses was going to be on the agenda for the night. And if there was anything she remembered about Spike kisses, it was that they’d been  _good_. She wanted kisses that good again. The guys she’d let touch her in this body (and, well, her old one, too, if she had to be honest) had been okay, anywhere from acceptable to sweet (and sometimes sloppy, depending on the level of drunkenness involved), but she couldn’t call any of them  _good_. And although she’d have probably rather died than admit it twenty years ago (the irony wasn’t lost on her), Spike’s faux-engagement kisses had set the standard almost laughably high. She’d pushed all her denied frustration into her kisses with Riley after that, but they’d just left her privately disappointed.

Gathering her courage, Buffy quietly regarded the still-crouched vampire in front of her, then leaned forward just slightly and brushed her lips to his.

Spike drew in a sharp breath and she felt him still against her attentions, to her sudden panic. God, had she badly misread this somehow? Did he not… She drew back, only to find Spike’s expression brimming with desperate hope, nearly blinding in its strength.

Okay, so she might’ve been a tad hasty on the whole “he doesn’t love me anymore” front.

“Buffy?” His voice was trembling.

Smiling gently, Buffy bent toward him again, nuzzling his cheek briefly as she pressed her lips near his ear. “Here.” He shivered and she bent back toward his full mouth, considering it for only a moment before grabbing his bottom lip between her teeth and nibbling with careful precision. Spike groaned loudly and—between one breath and the next—Buffy found herself pressed back against the comforter by an animated vampire. Spike’s eyes were dark and dilated as he knelt over her, straddling her hips with his own, the bulge of his apparent erection pressing into her.

“Buffy.” It was a growl this time.

“Still here,” she said, with a flip smile.

Spike wiped the small smirk off her lips a moment later—mostly by capturing them in his own. Oh, thank god.  _Finally_.

And wow, her memory of Spike kisses had been about as good a representation as that illustration of him had been. That was, not even close to the real thing. Kissing Spike wasn’t an experience—it was a pitched battle. His mouth invaded hers, demanding that she respond with equal ferocity as he mercilessly suckled and licked and nipped at her. He had leaned down onto his elbows and his hands were tangled in her hair. She whimpered as his fingers slid along her scalp in massaging, circular strokes.

“God, Buffy,” he muttered as he let her take a gasping moment for breath. “Want you.”

“Yes,” she agreed, letting her own hands explore his back and chest beneath his duster, running her hands down to the edge of his shirt. He hissed when she slid under the soft cotton, her fingertips dancing along lean, cool muscle.

“Fuck.” His lips left hers to lay a devastating swath down her jaw. When he reached her throat, he accidently brushed her bruises and she jerked away, unable to completely hold in a pained cry.

They froze. Spike stared at her, his face stunned and apologetic. It was obvious that he’d forgotten about her injuries in the heat of things. Well, she had, too. Buffy drew in a shaky breath, completely at a loss for where they stood with the moment broken. “Sorry.”

Spike blinked at her, his chest heaving unnecessarily. “What– why in god’s name are  _you_ apologizing? I…” His brows furrowed as he glanced down at her throat, which she was sure probably didn’t look all that great, if how it felt was anything to go by. “I’m the one that… Christ, Slayer.”

Buffy grimaced at the title but let it go. Bigger fish to fry. “You didn’t know,” she said quietly.

Spike stared at her for a long moment, then rose swiftly from the bed, to her flinching disappointment. She lifted herself to a sitting position, hands clasped in discomfort as the vampire began to pace around her room. After a minute, he turned to her with a narrow stare. “You almost got yourself killed tonight, you know that?”

That applied to no small number of nights in her new life, actually. But it probably wasn’t in her best interest to bring that up at the moment. “Well, someone likes to inhabit the dangerous ends of town,” she said with a wry smile.

He snorted at her and seemed about to make some kind of smart-ass comment, when he paused instead and tilted his head, eyeing her closely for a long moment. “You seem happy.” Something unreadable flashed in his eyes. “I don’t remember seeing a lot of that before.”

Deciding just to go with the strange direction of their conversation, she said simply, “I’ve had a pretty good life this time around.”

Spike sighed heavily, running a tense hand through his hair and mussing it into a mess of curls. “You shouldn’t even be here, pet. You should be back in heaven where you belong.”

Buffy shrugged. “Obviously there’s been a small snag on that front.”

“Understatement of the bloody decade.” He shook his head. “I need to call Red.”

Buffy nearly flung herself to standing. “No, you don’t!” Her breath hissed out as she landed on her sprained ankle and Spike leapt at her, gently pushing her back on the bed.

“For pity’s sake, Buffy, don’t get up.”

She glared at him. “Then don’t threaten to call Willow.”

Spike blinked at her, baffled. “Threaten? I’m not bloody threatening you! Red doesn’t have any clue what she’s done, far as I know. Witch deserves a proper tongue lashing until I can get across the pond and rip her sodding throat out.”

“She kind of deserves both of those things,” Buffy agreed, with bitter calm. “But they’re not going to happen.”

Spike frowned at her for a long moment, then his expression smoothed into realization. “There’s some other bit to this you haven’t said.”

“Yep.”

“Right.” He slid onto the bed next to her, his face intent and grim. “Gonna tell me?”

Haltingly, she recounted Mrs. Klein’s revealing spell, watching Spike’s face darken and then pale in turn.

“She… this might happen  _again_?” His expression turned murderous and he bit off a string of curses that appeared to have the phrase ‘beat her to death with her own broomstick’ in there somewhere. He only stopped when Buffy laid a calming hand on his arm.

“Spike. Enough, okay?”

His fury melted into helplessness. “Fucking hell, Buffy, you might keep on being reborn until time’s end?”

“Maybe. If Mrs. Klein was right.” Buffy chewed the bottom of her lip. “But she also thought I’d become a Slayer and, well… I’m kind of old now.”

To her surprise, Spike shrugged. “Seen an older girl here and there.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Last Slayer I did in was one. Believe she was called at eighteen or thereabouts. Pregnant with a kid and everything.”

“Nikki?”

“Yeah.”

Huh. So she might still become a Slayer? The thought was a gigantic, swirling pit of inner conflict. She knew some big piece of her craved it—wanted to feel powerful and purposeful again. But it came with a hefty price tag paid in loneliness, loss, and early death. And dealing with that again…

“The bottom line,” Buffy said finally, “is that I don’t know. And, honestly, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life as Willow’s attempted ‘fix-it’.” Her mouth drew a flat line. “She’s done enough of that. So, I don’t want her to know about me, okay? She’s not the only powerful witch in the world. If this ends up being a problem, I’ll find someone else to help.”

Spike pursed his lips. “If you come back again, you mean.”

“Pretty much. Until then…” Buffy sighed. “Until then, I just want to live my new life.”

Spike was quiet for a few moments, then he looked at her with a small, tentative smile. “But you came to find me?”

“Well, yeah. Kind of want you to be a part of this new life.”

“God, Buffy.”

“Is that okay?”

He gaped at her. “Are you absolutely off your bird? ” He drew in a sharp breath, his gaze dark and intent. “Even if all you want is… I mean… Oh, Christ, whatever you want, Buffy. It’s yours.”

Now it was her turn to be stunned. Twenty years later and a new body and whatever else between them, and Spike was still offering everything of himself to her. What had she ever done to deserve that kind of devotion? She waved her hands in front of her lap disbelievingly. “Just like that?”

His lips quirked slightly, ruefully. “Just like that, Slayer.”

“I’m not the Slayer anymore, Spike.”

“You’re still  _my_ Slayer,” he said softly. He winced a bit, and then added quickly, “Though you’ve never been mine. Not claiming you are. You’re your own woman and all that girl power rot.”

Buffy laughed before she could help herself, quirking her brow. “You should probably shut up while you’re ahead.”

He grinned at her, his eyes dropping to hooded as he scanned her suggestively. “I’m ahead, am I?”

“Mmm.” She regarded him with mock thoughtfulness. “You’d probably be more ahead if you were naked.”

Spike’s smirk faded to outright astonishment. “If you didn’t sound so much like yourself, pet, think I’d worry I was being made a fool.” He eyed her speculatively. “Still sort of do.”

“No foolery here,” Buffy said with a soft smile. She looked at him a bit self-consciously, one hand playing with the ends of her hair. “Sorry that you’re just getting the ‘B’ model, though. I know it’s not what you… not the same.”

Spike looked at her like she was an idiot. “Told you that you were still gorgeous, didn’t I?”

“I’m not strong, though. Not like I was.” That was actually the harder piece to reconcile, these days. Particularly now that Spike was suddenly back in the picture and still interested in her. He’d have to be as careful with her as she’d once had to be with a non-juiced up Riley.

“Do I seem like I give a flying fuck? It’s still you.”

Buffy glowed under the praise and felt the weight of twenty years of curiosity and sudden, burning need fall on her. She gave him a pointed, coy look. “Well, then. Make with the nakedness already.”

But to her surprise, Spike hesitated, looking abashed. “Pet, you’re a bit injured.”

She flinched, even though he really hadn’t done anymore than state the obvious. “I… yeah.”

A pause. “And it’s been a whopper of an evening.”

Again with the obvious. She’d been fiercely ignoring her exhaustion, but apparently he hadn’t. “Also, yeah,” she said reluctantly. God, when had Spike turned into Mr. Responsible? Looking after Dawn for two decades had apparently left its mark, along with whatever else he’d gotten up to.

Spike watched her gently, and she knew he could see the disappointment written all over her face. “Got lots of time now, Slayer. So let’s leave the acrobatics for another day, alright?”

She hunched into herself on the edge of the bed. “God, I must look like garbage if I have you not only turning down sex, but actually  _convincing_  me it’s a bad idea.”

Spike’s expression turned panicked. “Luv, no, that’s not what I meant.”

She shrugged, turning away to stare at her closet door so she wouldn’t start crying, the emotional rollercoaster of the night finally catching up to her. “Just shut the blinds so you aren’t dust in the morning, okay? I promise not to take up too much of the bed.” She paused and glanced back at him uncertainly. “Unless you don’t want to stay anymore.”

“Oh, for fuck’s–” Spike rose and firmly took her by the shoulders until she was facing him again, her chin firmly tilted up to meet his gaze using two of his cool fingers. “Now you listen here, you barmy chit. Been mourning your pert little arse for two decades. And if you think for one bleeding second there’s anything more I want at this moment than to ravish you silly, then you’ve gone completely off your trolley.” He paused and gentled his expression. “But what I want even less than that is to bung up actually getting to worship said pert little arse. So, yes, Slayer, we’re going to wait until you’re less dead on your feet and not looking like you barely escaped the bloody noose.” His nostrils flared and he glared at her again as he released her chin. “All right?”

“All right,” she agreed meekly, feeling entirely stupid. She sighed. “Sorry. You’ve all but used a skywriter to tell me you want to be here. I just… I’ve been looking for you for a really freaking long time, Spike. Everything in the life of Buffy Summers pretty much went sideways or just majorly downhill, so I kind of keep thinking that’ll happen with you now, too.”

Spike chuckled lowly, raising a brow. “That’s a long bit of honest from you, pet.”

She gave him a dry look. “Communications major, remember? I’m not completely hopeless these days.”

Spike grinned at her as he shrugged off his duster and laid it over her desk chair. “Were never hopeless, luv. A bit vocabularily challenged, but not hopeless.”

“Hey! There was nothing wrong with my vocabulary.”

“Oh, I beg to differ.” He eyed her with a sudden, bewilderingly smoldering gaze. “And since you’re so hell-bent on mastering the wonders of oral communication these days, figure we could at least have a go at a study session before we turn in.”

Buffy wrinkled her nose in confusion. “What? Spike, it’s Friday. And, as you so kindly pointed out, it’s late and I’m tired.”

He dropped to his knees in front of her with a smirk, hands sliding up her clad thighs. “Yeah? Still, think there’s time for a chapter or two.” His hands made their way up toward the button on her jeans and she drew in a sharp, understanding breath.

“Spike…”

His gaze was burning and intent. “Let me taste you, Buffy. God, please, let me taste you. Been dreaming of your sweet little pussy for decades.”

“But you said–”

“I said no acrobatics,” he growled. “Don’t need you to do a bloody thing right now except get comfortable.” He paused, quirking a brow. “A bloke ever touched you like this now?”

“In this body?”

“Yeah.”

“Um. A couple times.”

He snorted. “That sounded real enthusiastic. Must’ve been some ham-handed wankers.”

“One guy tried the alphabet thing,” she said weakly.

Spike just rolled his eyes and tugged her jeans down her legs, carefully loosening her pant leg from her sprained ankle. The muscles in his biceps bunched with the motion, partially and infuriatingly obscured by his black tee shirt.

“Um… Spike?”

He glanced up from where he had been hungrily staring at her black panties and the dark copper curls peeking out from them. “Yeah, luv?”

“Can you please still get naked? I… I want to see you.”

He blinked at her, then rose with a proud smirk. “With pleasure.” He pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it to join his duster on the desk chair. And… holy cow.

As Buffy Summers, she’d sort of gravitated toward big and beefy, in some kind of likely weird subconscious feeling that visible heft would complement her actual, hidden strength. And, not so shockingly, it was never a comfortable match. The size of her boyfriends just ended up shadowing her instead of complimenting her.

As Buffy Gallagher, she’d sort of experimented with variety, going from tall to short to lean to chubby, and everywhere in between. All the leftover pieces of Buffy Summers kept interfering with her new body’s exploration, though, and she’d still had no real idea what suited her best.

Now, staring at Spike’s pale chest and watching him slowly unzip his jeans to reveal an equally pale and proudly jutting cock, she decided all of that was kind of null and void.

Spike suited her.

He was the strangest mix of beautiful and masculine, all hard angles and lean curves, with an unexpected, almost feminine elegance. He was pure muscle from top to toe—a formidable-looking opponent even without vampire strength—but he carried it with a dancer’s weight, moving predatorily swift and silent while doing something as simple as kicking off his boots.

Of course, he knew he was hot, and his mouth was tilted into a knowing smirk the entire time, hands pausing to run down his chest in what was clearly meant to be a suggestive path. She got the message loud and clear.

It was only once he’d stripped entirely, though, that Buffy realized the absurdity of the situation and started helplessly giggling, to Spike’s annoyed bafflement.

“Don’t know what you’re laughing at, Slayer.” He sent one hand to place a hard grip at the base of his very sizeable cock. “Can assure you there’s nothing  _funny_  here.”

She shook her head, still giggling. “Oh god, nothing funny about that at all. That is... geez. You are… whoa.”

He grinned at her. “Definitely got that eloquence in spades, pet.”

“And again, shut up.” She licked her lips and got herself under control. “I was laughing because you’re here. After  _twenty_  years. And we’ve barely kissed, and yet you’re standing stark naked in my dorm room about to, um…”

“Eat out your heavenly-smelling little cunt?” Spike’s expression was heavily lidded and intent.

“Uh, yeah. That.”

He chuckled and prowled toward her. “Don’t worry, luv, I’ll give you a proper snogging, too. But later.”

She just stared at him in amazement as he knelt toward her again, and it occurred to her then that she’d sort of unleashed Spike. He’d been almost painfully careful with her after her resurrection and similarly so after finding her as Buffy Gallagher—obviously knowing/expecting that any attempts to make a pass at her were going to be met with a blow or blistering words or plain avoidance. But now that he had permission to be open and sexual… wow, was he sexual.

“Is this a vampire thing or just you?”

Spike looked up from his study of her panties. “Is what a vampire thing?”

“You’re all…” She flushed. “Never mind.”

He raised his scarred brow. “I’m all what, Slayer?”

“You’re all…” She pursed her lips, resorting to waving her hands when words failed her.

Luckily, Spike had years of experience dealing with that, and probably no small amount of time dealing with it from her sister, and from a crazy vampiress before that. He grinned. “Hot for you?”

“Looking like you plan to eat me.”

His expression turned entirely hungry. “Well, that’s because I do.” He brought his hands up to her waist, pointedly tugging at the hem of her shirt. “Take this off, luv. Want to see you, too.”

She drew her shirt up over her head and then, after seeing Spike’s gaze glued to her covered breasts, unsnapped her bra and tossed it to the floor. He groaned low in his throat.

“God, Buffy.”

She’d spent a considerable amount of time examining her new body in the mirror, comparing it to the old one and figuring out exactly what she could change to her satisfaction. Years of martial arts had done wonders for keeping her frame lean and toned, although she was pretty much hopeless on the getting tanned front. Her new complexion just wasn’t built for it. She freckled and burned, and then ultimately stayed pale. Still, her breasts were reasonable and small enough that they stayed out of the way when she fought, and her butt was nice enough, even if not as round as her old one. It was, in the end, a body which she’d come to accept.

“You like it?” she asked shyly. “I guess you don’t really have the same kind of comparison for me from before, but…”

“Oh, believe me, saw plenty when you used to go around in those damn short skirts of yours,” Spike said lavisciously, waggling his brows. “Was rather put out when you gave those up.”

She laughed, the sound catching in her throat when Spike pointedly spread her legs and moved forward, nostrils flaring intently.

“That’s kind of gross, you know.”

He didn’t even look up at her. “No, it’s not. You smell divine.”

“Most guys just want it to not smell at all.”

“Well, they’re stupid tossers.” His fingers hooked onto the edges of her panties. “Lean back now.”

She did so after a moment’s hesitation, resting her elbows on the comforter as Spike tugged her slightly more to the edge of the bed, conveniently ridding her of her underwear at the same time.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, lifting her legs to rest over his shoulders.

Buffy pursed her lips, but didn’t say anything. Her girl parts, while fine, had never exactly seemed  _pretty_. But the last thing she was going to do at this very moment was mention that and put them off track. Particularly when ‘on track’ was Spike’s lips slowly kissing up the inside of her thighs as his fingers stroked her folds. Anya would have been so proud.

Buffy whimpered as Spike slowly teased her clit, murmuring bits of incoherent praise against her skin, the gusts of air providing extra, almost unbearable stimulation. When his fingers parted her to let his tongue slip in, she gasped and fell back, clutching at the bedspread. The coolness of him was unexpectedly erotic, heightening all the sensations that a hot mouth seemed to let fade. Jolting, tickling arcs of pleasure raced up her belly, making her feel swollen and wet and needy.

“Spike. Oh  _god_.”

He chuckled against her. “Not hardly.” Then he went back to her clit, flicking his tongue deftly against her nub as two fingers played with her opening, swirling around her juices before plunging in, to her desperate cry. As she bucked against him, he used his free hand to press down on her hips.

“Shh, luv, I’ve got you. Just feel.”

It was strangely the most freeing thing a lover had ever said to her. All the guys she’d been with had looked at her weirdly if she didn’t make enough noise, obviously worried about the success of their efforts. And while some of it was definitely pleasure-induced vocalization, some of it ended up being more a method of communication than anything else, and it usually ended up distracting her from just  _feeling_. She realized, with a startled thought, that Spike didn’t need her to moan more loudly or gasp more eloquently to know he was doing a good job. He was a vampire. He could feel her heartbeat quicken and her arousal get stronger, and see her blood rushing to all the right parts. And her blood was  _definitely_  rushing to all the right parts.

Spike’s fingers curled in her in a come hither motion, slowly thrusting, and she whimpered helplessly, her body turning rigid as the heralding, throbbing signal of her orgasm built up, just maddeningly out of reach.

And then Spike lightly nipped at her clit, and she fell over the edge. Waves of pleasure crashed through her as she clenched and pulsed against Spike’s fingers, to his heady moan.

“Fuck, yes, Buffy,” he growled, still thrusting in her and keeping her drowning in aftershocks as he slid his tongue slowly over her folds. “Drench me.”

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore, and Spike pulled from her. She managed to lift her head and caught him slowly licking his fingers, eyes glued to her. “You taste brilliant,” he said huskily. His eyes had gone amber, and there was the slightest shadow of ridges on his brows, letting her know just how close to out of control her pleasure had made him.

“You…” she swallowed against her suddenly dry throat, not even sure what she wanted to say. Her head was spinning and entirely useless. Finally, she just crawled to the head of the bed and collapsed there. “Lights, blinds, then bed,” she mumbled.

Spike didn’t answer, but the lights snapped off and she heard the quick zip of the blinds lowering, followed by the weight of Spike’s naked body as he came beside her in the twin bed.

“Bit of a tight fit,” he murmured in amusement, wrapping his arms around her as he slid them both under the covers.

His erect cock was pressing into her stomach and Buffy roused guiltily. “Geez, you almost sent me into a coma and I’ve just let you stay all… unsatisfied.”

“I’m perfectly satisfied,” he said, a low rumble against her ear. His hands slid possessively around her hips and pulled her partially atop him.

To her embarrassment, she really hadn’t been exaggerating: between the excitement of the evening and plain human exhaustion, Buffy found herself falling into sleep with almost shocking speed.

The last thing she heard was the soft whisper of Spike’s voice as he stroked her hair. “Got you back, Buffy.  _Got you_. Couldn’t be more bloody satisfied.”


	6. The Ghosts in the Thingamajigs

Buffy woke to Spike nuzzling just behind her ear as he took huge, gulping breaths. After a second of disbelieving bafflement, she cracked open one eye with a snort of laughter. “ _What_  are you doing?”

The snuffling stopped abruptly, traded for a low mumble of, “Your scent’s different. Just memorizing it.”

“You did plenty of that last night, as I recall.”

Spike chuckled and pulled back to regard her with a small grin. “Different kind of smelling, luv. You have lovely little scent glands behind your ears. Eyelids, too.”

She opened both eyes. “Uh, do  _not_  smell my eyelids. That’s weird.”

“Armpits then?”

Buffy gave him an incredulous look. “I think I forgot how bizarre vampires are.”

He lifted a brow, settling beside her on his elbow with a curious smile. His hair was gorgeously mussed, curls falling down everywhere. “Did you? Sounded to me like you’ve been keeping up on the supernatural world.”

“Sort of, but the only vampires I’ve really been around are fledges. And we both know how big they are on conversation.” She eyed him hesitantly. “So… what do I smell like?”

Spike tilted his head in consideration. “Loads of tasty things I can’t prolly translate and, uh, roses.”

She smiled. “That’d be my perfume. My mom got me some really nice stuff as a college gift.” When Spike’s brow furrowed, she added, “My new mom, I mean. Lara. She’s great.”

He shook his head slowly. “Hard to believe still that you’ve had a whole other life to go along with this new body of yours, Slayer.”

Personally, she was finding it hard to believe that Spike was currently in her bed. Naked. And she was having what could probably pass as morning pillow talk with him. After practically begging him to do terribly sexy things to her last night, not even a day after finding him.

Geez, he probably thought the new her was such a ho-bag.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” she mumbled, suddenly embarrassed.

Spike blinked. “Well, of course you didn’t. Doesn’t sound like you had any choice in the matter.”

“No, not the reincarnation thing. The last night thing.” Spike stiffened next to her, and she rushed on, “I mean, I wanted you—want you—but I didn’t find you just to get you naked. You know?”

He relaxed with a low chuckle. “Did figure that, Slayer. Would’ve been an awful lot of work for nothing more than a good lay.” He waggled his brows. “Not that I’m not worth the effort.”

“Wow, ego.”

He smirked. “With good reason. And speaking of, I do believe I promised you a proper snogging.” There was the weirdest mix of intensity and vulnerability in his eyes as he said it. Was he worried she might reject him this morning?

Buffy held his gaze steadily. “Yes, you did.” Then she grimaced as she felt around her mouth with her tongue. “Although, if you could wait until I’ve brushed my teeth, that would be awesome.”

“Don’t really give a toss, luv.”

“Well, I do.”

“Fine, fine,” he relented, instead placing a soft, openmouthed kiss on the curve of her shoulder that made her breath hitch. “In a bit then.” He hesitated, then met her eyes with almost astounding tenderness. “At the risk of being a broken record, just have to tell you again how much it means that you looked for me. Never imagined…” He trailed off and looked down at her pillow with a frown.

Buffy quietly regarded his suddenly uncertain form, knowing she’d never be able to vocalize what she could barely get straightened around in her own reincarnated head. Masturbating to Spike’s picture for all those years hadn’t just been about kisses and his pretty face, but that was the only part of it that she knew how to say.

Her last real memory of Spike as Buffy Summers had been him determined to stand by her to face whatever demon Mr. Broadway had been… until, inevitably, she lashed out and pushed him away, her insides bound up in knots by the proclamations of love he'd sung at her. Her last memory of everyone else was them leaving her to take on Broadway demon by herself, and then watching her dance herself to death. Friendship and loyalty and desire had gotten all mixed up and backwards in the last days of her life as Buffy Summers. Spike’s love for her had been the only constant. A gift she couldn’t accept, but one that never faltered anyway.

Those memories had swirled in her newly pre-pubescent brain for years with new freedom and clarity. She wasn’t the Slayer, anymore. There was no reason to deny Spike’s feelings—no reason to demand he fit into the box of ‘unfeeling monster’ so she could then stick him up on some high, off-limits shelf where she’d never again have to choose between what the Slayer had to do and what the girl Buffy might someday want to risk.

But, by the time she found Spike’s picture, she hadn’t been Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer, in over a decade. She could just be Buffy, and look at Spike like she might any other guy. And there was no denying that there’d never been anywhere near the same kind of simple magnetism between her and any other guy that’d been between them. Not always a nice kind of magnetism, but magnetism just the same. Magnetism that, miraculously, still seemed to be there.

“It’s what we were to each other,” she said softly, finally. When Spike looked back up at her questioningly, she continued, “Vampire. Vampire Slayer. I’ve had a lot of time to think about things since then. A whole bunch of new experiences and people and… things aren’t the same anymore.” She paused, trying to think of how to possibly phrase what it meant to be Buffy Gallagher. “I drive now, did you know?”

Spike gave her a bemused look. “Yeah?”

“Yep. My dad—his name’s Paul—he taught me to drive. I don’t have a car here because it’s annoying and expensive, but, well, that’s not the point. The point is that my dad taught me to drive. I was sixteen and terrified, and remembering the time I scraped up the Jeep in Sunnydale a way long time ago. But Paul just took me from the beginning. In his mind, I’d never touched the driver’s side of a car before. It was all new for him. And because he showed it that way to me, it was all new for me, too.” She paused. “Does that make any kind of sense at all?”

Spike regarded her with soft, understanding eyes. “Makes all the sense in the world.” His expression turned slightly wistful. “It’s how I felt becoming a vampire. Didn’t have to think about that old life unless I wanted to. Sussed out that I could be… well, whatever I bloody well wanted, within the rights of what Angelus would put up with.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Of course, wasn’t really as clean as I put on. Though it about drives me barmy sometimes, there’s still bits of William hanging about.” He hesitated. “Dru… she’d call me that on and off. William. Only person I never minded doing it. Knew after a while it was her way of telling me I was still him, too—although dunno whether it’s because she bolloxed up the turning being insane or summat else.” He stopped then and glared at her, as if suddenly realizing how much he’d said. “And if you repeat any of that to anyone, I’ll rip out your throat.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Who exactly am I going to tell?” She watched him as he conceded her point with a wave, a niggling kind of pleasure spreading through her. A large piece of wanting to find Spike had been because he was immortal and, well,  _Spike_. If he chose to stick with her, she knew she’d have a staunch ally until the end. But it hadn’t occurred to her that Spike would actually understand her new life in a way most other creatures would never be able to do. They were irrevocably tied together by the weird strings of death and rebirth.

And if what Spike said was true… well, she’d given very little thought to whoever human William had been. Exactly what parts had come through? And  _was_ that normal? It was an odd feeling to realize that—for all the time she’d known Spike—she knew a ton about his moods and vices, but very little about what was actually going on in his head. There was a kind of depth there—not to mention the weight of over a hundred years of life—that she’d often blatantly ignored before. Although, in all fairness, he made it pretty easy to do so. Fifty of those years must’ve been spent studying exactly how to exude the maturity level of a fifteen-year-old boy when it suited.

Buffy’s musings were interrupted by the chiming ring of a cell phone, something generic and loud, and unmistakably not coming from the phone still somewhere in her jeans pocket. To her surprise, Spike rose from the bed and started rummaging around in his duster until a silver smartphone appeared.

“’Lo.”

Geez, the technology age had really gotten to everybody. Not even century-old vampires were immune. And maybe even more surprising was the idea that someone was actually calling Spike. As in, someone likely had “Spike, aka, William the Bloody” programmed into their phone.

Weird.

“Yeah, be there tonight,” Spike said, after a moment of listening. His eyes flicked to hers. “Found a new one, by the by. Might bring her.”

Huh?

“No, older one.” A pause. “No, she’s already got the rundown, mate, believe me. Found her in a sodding demon bar.” Another pause. “Yeah, alright. See you in a bit.”

Buffy raised a brow when Spike tossed the phone on his duster. “Who was that and why were you telling them about me?”

“Was one of the local Watchers. Nice enough bloke. Name’s Ryan something or other.”

“Uh… huh.” Buffy sat up with a frown. “Going to need more than that.”

Spike sighed. “Told you I work freelance. Spend most of my time for the Wankers Council training the new Watcher-types and helping with the girls. And sometimes I find a Potential while I’m out and about. Take them to the Watchers for an introduction, if I can convince them to go.” A slight smirk crossed his face. “Being devilishly handsome helps with the convincing, of course.”

Of course. Buffy crossed her arms over chest uncertainly. “Still not sure why you told him about me.”

He winced at her sharp tone. “You don’t have to go, luv. Just figured maybe you’d like to meet them.”

“Other Potentials.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re going tonight.”

“Yeah.”

Buffy chewed the bottom of her lip in thought. This was more than Spike just giving her the opportunity to connect with other Potential Slayers. He knew it and she knew it. This was… well, the first step in deciding if she wanted anything substantial to do with her previous world. And, in some ways, a part of her previous world she’d never experienced before, since they hadn’t identified Buffy Summers before she was Called. She found her interest piqued. What would other Potentials be like, anyway?

“What will they want from me?”

“Usually just to tell you what you are and start training you up in case you’re Called. Not that you’d need much of a refresher, of course.” He raised a brow when Buffy snorted. “Summat funny?”

She gave him a wry look. “Spike, I have three black belts.”

That seemed to take the vampire aback. “You do?”

“Yep.” She shrugged. “I was stupid with you and let my guard down—didn’t expect you to attack me.”

He winced again. “Yeah.” He paused, obviously thinking. “And that other demon had you a bit strung up in close quarters. Those second arms are no easy task.”

“Yeah. Way wasn’t expecting that.”

A smile crossed Spike’s face. “Think I might convince you to spar with me sometime then, Slayer?”

She looked at him doubtfully. “Even on my guard, I’m no match for you now.” It was a hard thing to admit, but it was true.

Spike shrugged away her words. “I spar with the bitty slayer-might-be’s all the time. It’s good for them.”

“And for me, too, you mean. So this is for my benefit?”

He smirked at her. “Oh, no, luv. I just want to dance with you.” He appraised her for a moment. “You used to be a fly by the seat of your trousers sort of Slayer. Brilliant improvisation, though. Guessing that’s not the case so much now.”

She grimaced. “Not so much. I don’t have the power to just rush in like that anymore. Like you saw with big, yellow, and ugly last night, one wrong move can screw me over.”

Her face darkened. “Almost did, you reckless chit.”

“I wasn’t dead yet,” she said glibly. When Spike looked like he was about to berate her again, she nodded toward his phone. “What’s with you getting called in the morning, anyway? Don’t they know vampires are nocturnal?”

Spike gave her a sour look, but thankfully let her change the subject. “S’not morning, pet. Nearly four now.”

Well, that explained her rumbling stomach. “I slept that long? Geez.”

He smirked at her, coming back to stand by the bed. “Think I must’ve worn you out.” His cock was erect again (still?) and bobbed proudly in easy reach. He wasn’t circumcised, and Buffy found herself tempted to pull back the length of his foreskin and lick the delicate skin underneath. Unfortunately, she was very aware she’d be starting something she had no real way to finish at the moment. Sucking a cock with a bruised throat sounded excruciating. She pulled her eyes away from Spike’s considerable member and met his amused gaze. “Enjoying the view?”

“Too much for my body’s current shape, unfortunately.”

“Neck looks a bit worse this morning,” he noted.

“Probably will for a couple days,” she said with a shrug. “No Slayer healing. Good thing it’s basically winter. Yay, scarves.”

“Yeah.” He slid onto the bed next to her, watching her carefully. “So, what do you think, luv? Interested in giving the Wanker Troupe a go tonight?”

“You know, calling them that doesn’t exactly make them sound more appealing.”

He grinned. “Not getting paid to sing their praises.”

Buffy squared her shoulders, knowing her curiosity was going to get the better of her. And this was apparently Spike’s world now, too. “I’ll go.” Her stomach growled loudly and she sighed. “Once I get something to eat.” She paused. “Are you hungry?”

“I’ll be alright. Ate last night.”

“Okay.” Buffy hesitated, her chest tightening with the thought she’d tried really hard not to think about yesterday. Unfortunately, it was circling around her with particular viciousness this afternoon. Had Spike been killing? It seemed unlikely that the Council would want anything to do with him if he had been, but… well, she really had no idea what the Council was like anymore.

“Spike?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t kill anyone, please.”

He blinked at her. “What?”

“Eating people. I–I’m not the Slayer anymore, but I still care about people dying.”

There was a long pause.

“Already decided I’ve been killing again, have you?” A dangerous, pugnacious anger was glinting in Spike’s eyes.

“No,” she said quietly, “I hadn’t. But if you have, it’s… well…”

He stared at her tightly. “It’s what, Buffy?”

“Then it’s done. But moving forward…”

Spike growled lowly and leapt up from the bed, grabbing his jeans. “Glad to know you think so little of me, Slayer.”

“No, I…” Buffy looked at him, flustered, with swiftly rising guilt as she realized how poorly she’d started the conversation. “I just–”

“Been biting, not killing,” he said tersely, zipping up his jeans and tugging on his shirt. He glared at her. “And I’ll be keeping on it. Not going back to that bloody pig swill.”

“And people are just letting you snack on them?” As bad as it was, she hoped so. She couldn’t imagine Spike doing anything demeaningly vamp-hoeish, but the alternatives weren’t any prettier.

A muscle in Spike’s jaw ticked wildly and he clenched his fists. “Most of them never even know, alright?”

“I feel like that’s something that’s kind of hard to miss.”

He stared at her stonily. “Believe me, pet, if you were in the middle of being brilliantly shagged out of your mind, think you’d be hard pressed to know it, either.”

Oh. A mix of embarrassment and uncertainty and jealousy roiled in her. She knew she had no real right to feel jealous, but there it was. It wasn’t born of love—she couldn’t claim that—but it was… something. Something powerful. And thinking that lots of other women had had their paws all over Spike made her stomach churn. And,  _oh god_ , he’d eaten last night before she’d met him?

Buffy stared resolutely down at her comforter, unable to meet his gaze. “Did you… did you do that last night?”

“No,” was the short answer. “Chit was drunk in some shitehole of a pub. Hauled her off to the side and had a nice necking.”

“Oh.”

There was a long, awkward silence.

Finally, Spike sighed. “Look, I almost did it at first, alright?”

Buffy looked up at him hesitantly. “Did it?”

“Started killing again.”

“Why– why didn’t you?”

“Besides not wanting to give the Bit any reason to mistrust me?” He gave her a helpless look. “Knew you’d hate me for it.”

That threw her for a loop. “What? Spike, I was dead—for good—so far as you knew.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t matter. Couldn’t bear the idea of knowing you’d try and kill me if you ever saw me again just because of it.” His mouth quirked into a sardonic smile. “And no small bit of me also wanted to shove your stupidity right back into your overly righteous little face.”

“Huh?”

“You were so convinced I was just some collared wild animal.” He snorted. “Dawn got right fed up with me, those first few years you were gone again. I spent half the time professing my bloody eternal love and the other half chewing out your invisible angelic arse.” He looked at her with wry tenderness. “You were dead and you still about drove me up the bleeding wall, Slayer.”

Buffy rose from the bed, trying to paste on a shaky smile. Thankfully, her ankle gave only a slight twinge, apparently less sprained than she’d feared last night. “Well, I guess that’s still the same from before then, huh?”

His eyes scanned her naked form with sudden intensity. “In more ways than one.”

She shifted uneasily, unable to make heads or tails of where that left them. Or where Spike even wanted to be. Biting her lip, Buffy tugged on her bathrobe from the door and hefted her bathroom caddy. “I need to shower.”

“Alright.”

“Will you still be here when I get back?”

Spike looked startled. “Of course I’ll be here. You think I’d up and leave you  _now_?”

She shrugged uncertainly. “I don’t know. You seemed upset.”

“And that’s unusual for us how?”

“That’s not what I want anymore,” she managed stiffly, opening the door.

Spike was there a second later, firmly pushing it shut again. His blue gaze was fixed on her, solemn and gentle. “Buffy.”

“What?”

He brought a hand up to brush an errant curl away from her face. “You’re a marvel, you know that?”

“Whose-a-huh?”

He smiled softly at her flabbergasted expression. “Been tossed around like a bloody cosmic ragdoll, and you’re still fighting.” His fingers drew down her face, cupping her cheek. “You’re strength incarnate, pet.”

Buffy melted into his touch, closing her eyes against his cool palm. “I wasn’t trying to insult you,” she said finally.

Spike sighed. “I know, luv. And you had every right to wonder. I know I did until the moment it came down to it.”

Buffy shifted uncomfortably, looking down at her feet. “I don’t like that you’re feeding this way.”

Spike stilled, but—to her relief—didn’t draw away. “I’m not hurting anyone,” he said evenly.

She risked a glance up at his face, flushing. “That’s not why. I mean, I’m glad you’re not hurting anyone, but… yeah.”

“Pardon?”

“Those women.”

Spike frowned at her for a long moment, his brow deeply furrowed. Then a sudden understanding light came into his eyes and he looked at her with surprised delight. “Why, pet, are you  _jealous_?”

“Yes,” she mumbled, turning away and tugging at the door again. “And I have to shower.”

Spike looked like he wanted to press her further, but he seemed to think better of it after a moment and instead just grinned a bit goofily, taking a step back. “I’ll be here.” Her stomach growled pointedly and he chuckled. “And then I’ll take you for a spot of supper.”

Buffy paused halfway out the door, raising a brow at his choice of words. “Take me?”

The vampire gave her a meaningful look. “Well, there are plenty of other ways I’d like to take you, but food’s prolly the most pressing at the moment, yeah?”

“But you’re  _taking me_   _out_. As in... a date-age capacity?”

Spike regarded her carefully. “Was just a turn of phrase, luv. But,” he swallowed, “I’ll happily consider it a date if that strikes your fancy.”

The word stood between them with almost frightening vibrancy.  _Date_. After a moment, Buffy almost laughed. Being around Spike again seemed to trigger a million different kinds of uncertainty leftover from being Buffy Summers, but—in the end—it was really as Spike had described; that life and those issues… well, they’d always be in the back of her head, but they didn’t have to affect what she did as Buffy Gallagher. And although her exact feelings for Spike were in undefined territory, there was no denying that they were currently somewhat past the ‘just friends’ stage. 

“Yes,” she said softly. “I think that would definitely ‘strike my fancy’.”

Spike’s expression turned awed and then unabashedly predatory. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth in there. Going to snog the daylights out of you.”

“You better,” she mumbled, and then fled the room before Spike could tug her against him, gross teeth or no.

As she turned the corner in the hallway, she heard him call after her, with a stern, “And don’t take too long, pet, or we’ll find out if your little dorm showers are big enough for two.”

Rolling her eyes, Buffy nonetheless found herself debating the merits of speed showering versus naked wet vampire, something very much like teenage giddiness welling in her chest.


	7. In a Date-age Capacity

Buffy had barely gotten back inside her dorm room after an admittedly rushed shower when Spike pinned her against the door. His hips pressing against hers, he slipped a cool hand inside her robe and ran it up her thigh to cradle the swell of her ass.

“Mmm,” he purred, lowering his mouth to nibble on her collarbone, “still a bit wet, luv.”

“And you’re going to help with that?”

Spike grinned, raising his head. “If making you wetter counts, then yeah.”

She rolled her eyes. “You have no shame.”

“None at all,” he agreed. And, still smirking, he crushed his mouth to hers, flicking his tongue wickedly against her lips until she gasped and granted him entrance, her hands rising to tangle in his curls and her hips grinding against him like the sex-starved teenager she sort of was. And how many women, she wondered despite herself, had done the exact same thing in the last twenty years?

“If we’re going to be this–  _this_ ,” she said harshly, in between kisses, “no more having sex with your food.” Her hand wandered down to the front of his jeans for emphasis, tugging down his zipper and letting her hand wrap around his hardened cock.

Spike gave a low groan. “Wouldn’t dream of it, pet. This body’s all yours.” He gasped breathlessly as her fingers slid blindly up and down his shaft. “Always been yours, Buffy, even when you didn’t want it.”

“Well, I want it now,” she murmured, nipping at the shell of his ear and delighting in his small whimper. It was almost a shock to understand how much power she held over him—power that had nothing to do with being the Slayer and everything to do with being a woman.

To her bemusement, Spike drew back slightly at her words, his eyes searching her face with the expression she coming to recognize as his ‘I’m rethinking if this girl is Buffy’ look. After a moment, he chuckled, shaking his head. “Think getting reincarnated must’ve scrambled your brains, Slayer. Not that I’m complaining, but I’m pretty sure you’re going to come back to your senses any moment and deck me a good one. Or stake me, depending on where my hands are at the time.”

She arched a brow. “But it’s worth the risk?”

He scoffed. “Not about to refuse my heart’s desire when it’s offered on a sodding platter.” He paused, a small smirk curling up his lips again. “Or as a redhead in a blue robe, as the case may be.”

Buffy paused, a strange realization winding through her. “It really doesn’t matter to you at all, does it?”

“What doesn’t matter, luv?”

“How I look.”

He shrugged, smiling a bit ruefully. “Well, admittedly it’s a mite easier to not give a fig when you’re still so bloody beautiful.” He waggled his brows. “Not that I wouldn’t still be game for shagging you as a geriatric.”

“Eww, gross, Spike.”

“Not gross,” he said with soft rebuke. “You’ll be one someday.”

Buffy swallowed, almost equally in awe and terrified that he was already thinking of that kind of thing. Well, she’d wanted someone who would stick around, and there was no denying that was exactly what she was getting. Still, imagining her future as an old woman seemed like the most dangerous thing she could do. It almost guaranteed that she’d become the Slayer. That she’d never live long enough to know what wrinkles felt like. “That’s a lot of years away,” she said finally, softly.

Spike's smile grew abashed. “Right. Sorry, luv. Getting ahead of myself. We’ve not even had a real date yet.”

Buffy nodded, pulling her robe back to closed as she made her way to her closet. What did a reincarnated Slayer wear on a first date with a century-old, reformed vampire, anyway? They were going to meet the Potentials and Watchers afterward, so something sparring-friendly was probably wise. And she definitely needed something that worked with a scarf. After catching a look at herself in the bathroom mirror, it had been clear that Spike’s comment about her being a noose escapee had been understating things. Frowning, she eventually shrugged on a light sweater, scarf, and some stretchy faux-jeans, carefully ignoring Spike’s intent gaze on her body as she changed.

“You’re not taking me anywhere crazy nice or weird, right?” she asked, motioning to her clothes. “I’m okay in this?”

Spike just strode over and planted a heated kiss on her lips. “You look good enough to eat,” he growled.

“Comparing me to food? So not the way to get in my pants.”

He smirked unrepentantly at her. “How about feeding you some food instead?”

“Much better plan.”

 

***

 

They ended up in a hip little burger joint in Larimer—the kind that offered ten kinds of hot sauces and fried onions as a side (which quickly solved the mystery of why Spike knew this spot).

“I should’ve come here first,” Buffy murmured in amusement. “Probably would have found you the first day in town.”

“Prolly,” Spike admitted easily. He lifted one of the hot sauce bottles with a nostalgic glint in his eyes. “The Bit decided to make me a batch of hot sauce as a Christmas present a few years back, you know.”

Buffy arched a brow. “How’d that go?”

“Had to evacuate the kitchen for a couple days,” he said with a grin.

“Poor Dawnie.” Buffy shook her head. “Neither of us got mom’s kitchen skills. Of course, she’s made from me, so that pretty much put her in the ‘culinarily hopeless’ category from the get-go.”

Spike watched her carefully. “Little surprised you haven’t asked much about her.”

Buffy shrugged, a welter of emotions filling her. “It’s hard. I’ve been trying to let her go… I mean, she’s what, in her mid-thirties now?”

“Thereabouts.” He shrugged. “Been married for a decade or so, to a nice bloke. Even got a couple of rugrats running around.”

Buffy fingered her napkin nervously, a decades-long worry rising in her throat. “Is she… is she happy?”

“Seems to be.” Spike reached across the table to rest his cool hand on hers. “Missed you something fierce those first years. And she was so brassed at the Scoobies. I caught her calling Wil to scream it out in the middle of the night a few times.”

Buffy frowned. “Middle of the night? Wasn’t she with Aunt Arlene?”

“Only until Nibblet went to university, luv. Then I got a little flat near her campus and she stayed with me.” He winced. “Worried your aunt a bit, but we made it through.”

Buffy blinked. “Worried? Why would– Oh.” Her nose wrinkled as understanding hit. “She thought you two were, um, together?”

Spike shrugged. “Yeah. Told her we were just roommates, but she never seemed much into believing that, and wasn’t much else to say. Didn’t think she’d buy the ‘vampire who promised to protect her niece ‘til world’s end’ line.”

Buffy bit her lip, almost overwhelmed with gratitude. “I don’t think I’ve said it yet, but thank you. Thank you for taking care of Dawn. I don’t know what I’d…” She trailed off with a helpless shrug, all the rest of the words getting caught uselessly in her throat.

Spike eyed her seriously. “Buffy, you never need to thank me for that. Wouldn’t have happened at all, if not for–”

“Don’t you even start on blaming yourself,” she interrupted sharply.

Spike pursed his lips obstinately at her glare, then sighed in defeat. “Anyhow, the Bit and Red eventually made their peace.” His mouth curved up into a humorless smile. “After all, was easier to forgive the one who brought her sis back over the one who took her away again, eh?”

“So that’s a no to the Xander forgiveness?”

“Not much opportunity, to be honest. Harris cut off contact with most the rest after he and Anyanka split.”

Sudden sympathy raced through her. “It… he shouldn’t have to carry that blame by himself.”

Spike hand clenched from where it was still resting on top of hers. “Doesn’t. We were all in good company on that, pet, no matter that you’d like me to believe otherwise.” He clenched his jaw. “Your brooding wanker of an ex was the only one who liked to claim his nose was clean on that front. As if the whole Glory disaster couldn’t have gone different with a bit of help.”

Buffy shrugged, pausing as their waitress delivered their food. Thank god. She was starving. “Maybe. Maybe not.” She hesitated. “Something big happened in L.A. a while back, from what I could gather. Did that have to do with Angel?”

Spike snorted, taking a slow bite of fried onion. “Bloody thing was all Peaches’s fault. Brassed off the wrong evil-doers and damn near took out half the city.” He smirked slightly. “Of course, got his comeuppance for his efforts, as it were. Turns out being a real boy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Buffy’s eyes widened and she nearly dropped her burger. “What?”

“Your precious Angel got turned all human, luv. Some kind of prophecy what-not.” Spike chuckled. “For all his brooding about being a vampire, ol’ gramps has found being a human not much nicer. Think he didn’t consider the return of biological functions and that pesky aging rot. And his demon’s gone kaput, besides. Left him as whatever Liam’s turned into after all this time, though he tried to punch me when I called him that.” Spike’s blue eyes glittered. “Found himself a bit thrown into the wall instead, of course.”

“Oh.” Angel was human? Well… that explained a lot.

Spike tilted his head at her, his expression carefully neutral. “Oh? Oh, what?”

“Um, I called Angel a couple years ago looking for you. I thought he sounded strange.”

“You called…” Spike stared at her with shocked wonder.

Buffy ducked her head shyly. “Yeah. Anyway, I addressed him as Liam, just to get his attention. He didn’t take it well.”

Spike stared at her for a moment longer, then burst into very unmanly giggles. “Oh, Christ, Slayer, you didn’t! That’s bloody priceless!”

Buffy gave him a hard look. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Not possible,” Spike told her with a vicious grin. “The git deserves it, especially with the rubbish he pulled that year.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that he led his whole crew into the drink until they drowned.” He sighed. “There was a whole hullaballoo after Sunnyhell closed for business when Peaches came over all ghost-like but—way I hear it—things really went south after he let Oxford’s ladylove get eaten up by a bloody hell god. And since Rupert was testing out the hermit lifestyle, Willow asked Oxford for help in Merry Old, and he went. Left the L.A. crew to deal with their own pile of dung.”

“Who in the world is Oxford?”

“Ah. That’s Wes.” Spike waved his hand carelessly around a handful of burger. “Of the Wanker-Prices.”

Buffy stared at him. “Wait just a minute. Are you actually telling me that Willow and Wesley Wyndam-Price now  _run the Watcher’s Council_?”

“Well, Oxford officially, but Red’s pretty much his right hand man– er, woman.”

“And they hired you…”

Spike chuckled. “No need to sound so surprised, pet. Fought alongside Red at the end of the world to help her correct her fucking stupidity, didn’t I?” His jaw clenched, humor fading. “There was a bit of heated talk in the beginning when Sunnyhell sent out the SOS, but Glinda read them all the riot act, and they shut their gobs.”

Buffy watched Spike’s expression carefully, a heavy suspicion sitting ominously in her stomach. “Where’s Tara now?”

Spike drew in a shuttering breath and stared down at the table. “Down in the hellmouth, with the rest of them who didn’t make it out.” He looked back up at her, his blue eyes tight with pain. “Was the worst trip I ever had to make, driving back to Illinois by myself, knowing that I’d left the Bit without another piece of family.”

Buffy’s chest tightened almost unbearably. “Spike…”

He shrugged and seemed to push away the pain from his expression, no doubt through years of practice. “Anyhow, even though I’ll happily rip out Red’s throat for what she’s done to you, she otherwise paid her dues. After Sunnyhell, the witch figured the best way she could make up for what she’d done was to try and repair the Council.”

Buffy sat back heavily in the booth, stunned. “Wow.”

Spike laughed. “Told you, luv. Times have changed. And yours truly isn’t the only beastie running around the Wankers group now, not by far. Oxford’s got a nice open mind on him—at least these days. Heard he used to be quite the wet little tosser once upon a time.”

“Uh, he was like the poster child for uptight and clueless Watcher.”

“Yeah, well, you might not recognize him now, then.” He quirked a brow. “His ladylove’s still about, too.”

“Didn’t you just say some hell god killed her?” And, gee, there seemed to be a theme on that front.

“No, pet, said a hell god  _ate_  her.”

Buffy blinked at him. “Um... is there a significant difference? Besides, you know, the grossness factor.”

“The god—Illyria—took over her body and most of her form, although she’s all blue, which I don’t figure was on the original model.” He shrugged. “Her Blue Majesty’s a bit… interesting, but not a bad sort, for a hell god. Right attached to Oxford still, too, though I’m not sure she understands the exact concept of love. Seems to be some leftover from the original bird.”

“And again, wow.” Buffy tried to absorb that. “Is the blue godwoman, um, helping?”

“When she feels like it. Seems to get a kick from obliterating lesser beings, so if there’s something right nasty about, she’s likely to tag along. Only ever on her terms, though. She’s not exactly the following type.”

A chill went through her at his casual note of the goddess’s power against ‘lesser beings’. “But she leaves you alone?”

Spike looked almost embarrassed at that. If he hadn’t been a vampire, she knew he’d have been blushing. “Seems to like me, matter of fact.”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “Likes you how?” Finding out that Spike had been sleeping with a bevy of human women was bad enough, but at least that had been functional. If he was off sleeping with hell gods… well, that was an entirely new level of hard to think about.

Spike looked at her with understanding amusement. “No need to worry about me and Her Blue Godship, Buffy.” He shifted a bit awkwardly. “She just, ah, thinks I’m her pet.”

“Her  _what_?”

He winced. “Apparently I amuse her, or some such.” When Buffy’s face apparently turned overly pinched, he cleared his throat and very pointedly changed the subject. “Anyhow, guessing you’re not planning to reveal yourself to the Watchers tonight?”

Buffy gave him a hard look, but decided to let the subject of possessive hell gods drop for the moment. Sighing, she shook her head. “Nope. No revealing here.”

“Gonna need to call you something other than ‘Buffy’ then, luv,” he said quietly. “Not that common a name, and you’re pretty famous.”

Buffy sat up straighter. “I am?”

“Of course you are, you silly bint. Best Slayer there ever was, weren’t you?”

She snorted. “Okay, now you’re just being silly.”

“Never.”

She found herself trapped underneath Spike's intense and solemn gaze. Finally, she managed to croak, “I’ll go by a different name, then. My real one now is Morgan. That would be fine.”

Spike wrinkled his nose. “That is a bloody awful name.”

Buffy raised a brow, trying not to point out the hypocrisy of him having accepted  _Buffy_  and yet not able to stomach the much more commonplace  _Morgan_. “Well, sorry,” she said finally, “that’s all you’ve got. My name is Morgan Elle Gallagher.” She paused. “I guess I could go by Elle, although since the whole  _Legally Blonde_  thing, it’s kind of weird.”

“Bit ironic, too,” Spike added, with a slight smile. He didn’t seemed confused at all by the movie reference, which made her incredibly suspicious that Dawn had roped him into more than one girl’s night in. He pursed his lips in clear thought. “How about Meg?”

Buffy blinked. “Meg? Where did that come from?”

He traced a pale finger along the table’s surface as he scripted invisibly against it. “M-E-G. Your initials, yeah?”

Huh. Buffy tested out the sound on her tongue. “Meg.” It was short and distinct and almost comfortingly separate from any of her other current identities. “I can handle that. Although I’m going to have more names than Seal if I keep this up.”

Spike looked entirely nonplussed. “What?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know—it was on some trivia thing I went to. Apparently Seal’s real name is like six names long or something.”

Spike regarded her with bright amusement. “If you say so, Slayer.”

“You do realize you’re going to have to stop calling me ‘Slayer’, right?”

He scowled at her. “Did suss that out, thanks ever so.” He shrugged. “Only around them, though. Not going to stop when we’re alone.”

An unexpectedly happy sensation filled her. “Okay.”

Spike smiled warmly at her, before glancing down at the table with sudden consternation. “Sorry this hasn’t been much of a good first date… hashing out past uglies and all.” He swallowed and met her eyes again, his expression dark and intent. “But if you give me another chance, luv, promise I can knock your socks off. Take you anywhere you–”

“Spike.”

He paused. “Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

He frowned severely at her, looking worried and slightly irritated. “Buffy…”

She laughed, rolling her eyes. “This has been great.” She eyed him speculatively. “Unless you start talking about skateboarding across the U.S. Then I’m totally out of here.”

Spike’s brow furrowed. “What? Why in the sodding hell would I start talking about that?”

“Exactly.” Buffy settled comfortably further into her seat and picked at the last of her fries. “How about colors of demon blood?”

Spike grinned. “Now that sounds like a more interesting subject.”

Buffy matched his expression, feeling years of tension lift from her shoulders. She thought again of Katie’s disbelief when she sent Mr. I-Skateboard-Because-I-Don’t-Understand-Real-Adult-Responsibilities packing the night she’d been reunited with Spike.  _Why’d I send him away? Because of this. Because he’d never understand this. Never understand me._

“Spike?”

“Yeah, luv?”

“You’d better ask me on a second date.”

Spike eyed her steadily for a long moment, then settled into a goofy grin. “So, Slayer, how about a second date?”

She couldn’t help but tease him. “Maybe.”

And predictably, watching Spike sputter at that was honestly the highlight of the evening. “ _Maybe_? You daft, teasing little chit, what the bloody hell do you mean by  _maybe_?”

“I don’t know for sure that you aren’t going to burst into skateboarding talk yet.”

Spike glowered at her. “Infuriating bint.”

“Hey, you’re the one who asked me on a second date.”

The vampire didn’t say anything for a long moment, then, “Think you’re so bloody funny, do you? How about I rescind that second date offer then? Or could go a step further and be on my merry way and we part ways for good, no harm no foul.”

Buffy shoved down the sudden feeling of queasy panic that set up in her stomach and shrugged. “If you want.” Except that it came out with a kind of shaky uncertainty that betrayed her entirely.

Spike chuckled lowly. “You’re still stubborner than a cold fish, Slayer.”

“That’s… okay, that’s kind of gross.” Buffy fidgeted in her seat, one hand convulsively playing with her copper curls as she refused to look at him.

The waitress came to leave their check, and Spike handed her a wad of cash. “Keep the change, pet.”

Buffy looked down at the booth seat. There was an edge peeling, revealing the webbed polyester beneath. She could feel Spike's gaze on the top of her head, burning and silent. “Please don’t leave,” she whispered finally. “I didn’t mean it.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from across the table, then Spike had suddenly crossed over to her side of the booth, grabbing her shoulders in a firm grip until she looked at him. “Buffy, I’m not going anywhere, you silly lamb.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Will dust before I let that happen again.”

“That’s morbidly comforting.”

He brushed a lock of hair away from her face, fingers tracing her lips tenderly. “Appropriate for a vampire, then, eh?”

She looked up at him wryly. “Guess so.”

Spike let his fingers fall down her frame, leaving light, tingling traces down her neck and across her collarbone as he did so. “So, about that date.”

“Yes.”

“And off to the Watchers for now?”

“Yes.”

“Alright then.” He leaned forward to press a kiss to the edge of her jaw, carefully away from her bruised and scarfed neck. “Let’s go, Meg.”


	8. Potential

Buffy stared at the building that was apparently home to the Pittsburgh Council offices. It was a modern looking, multi-story affair, with  _Wyndam Martial Arts Teaching School_  printed in clean black lettering on the front window. “It’s a martial arts studio.”

Spike chuckled. “She reads.” When Buffy gave him a dark look, he grinned and added, “Probably more useful for fighting beasties than ballet, yeah?”

She huffed in exasperation. “No, I mean– well, yes, but… it’s just so  _public_.” She motioned to where a slew of parents were dropping off their kids for evening lessons in the side parking lot.

“Meant to be, luv. Watcher boy can explain it to you.” Spike shrugged and nudged her toward the door. “In you get, Sl– Meg.”

Buffy hid a smile. “Smooth catch.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Spike ran a hand through his now thoroughly mussed hair. For all that he’d practically shoved the idea of meeting the Watchers and other Potentials down her throat, he’d managed to nearly drive her insane with his myriad of nervous habits the entire trip over from the restaurant. He’d started by tapping on the steering wheel, then moved on to fiddling with the radio, then smoking a cigarette, and then rambling on about ten different topics, until she’d finally had enough and leaned over to place a firm hand on his thigh.

“Spike.”

He glanced down at her hand on his inner thigh and cleared his throat. “Yeah?”

“If you don’t stop freaking out, I’m going to scream.”

“I’m not–” At her hard look, he pursed his lips and shrugged, eyes glued on the road. “Bit nervous.”

“Gee, I couldn’t tell.”

“Oh, stuff it,” he mumbled, running a hand through his curls.

Buffy sighed. “Okay, so I know why  _I_  should be nervous, but I have no idea why you are.”

He didn’t respond for a long moment, then muttered something she couldn’t hear.

“At a decibel level that’s not made for ants would be awesome. Human girl with human hearing here. Or has your memory dulled in your old age?”

Spike’s nostrils flared and he threw her a narrow look. “If I start worrying you’re not Buffy again, just remind me of this, will you?”

“Oh? Why?”

“Because no other bird will ever manage to be as irritating as you.”

“It’s a cross-body gift. Essential Buffy ghostly-ness.”

Spike snorted. “No bloody kidding.”

There was a moment of silence, then Buffy arched a brow. “So… why are you nervous? These people are your employers these days.”

“It’s just…” His jaw clenched. “Don’t want to do anything to give you away, alright? ‘Fraid I might. It’s not like I don’t know how my mouth runs off on me.”

Buffy giggled and gave his thigh a soft squeeze before sitting back. “Well, it’s not like anyone here ever knew me as Buffy Summers, right?” When he shook his head in confirmation, she continued, “And I can pretty positively say no one expects me to still be floating around. So, short of us screaming it from the rooftops or something equally stupid, I think we’ll be okay.”

Spike’s fingers started tapping on the steering wheel again. “Seem to always get a bit stupider around you,” he muttered.

A frown furrowed her brow. "I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

“Been both, at one time or the other,” he said dryly, softening his words with a small smile.

He’d calmed down sufficiently after that, and now seemed mostly composed as he pulled the martial arts studio door open for her.

There was a small reception area just inside the entryway, with a casually dressed young guy patiently explaining something about class schedules to a harried looking mom and her daughter. The girl couldn’t have been any older than eight, and her brown hair was swinging in a high ponytail as she kicked at the front panel of the desk in boredom. The epitome of normal family dynamics.

The mom snatched the girl’s hand and tugged her away from her kicking post. “Lily, stop that right now. Future superheroes treat furniture with respect!”

Buffy blinked. Okay, so maybe not-so-normal family dynamics.

The guy at the desk just smiled tolerantly, in such a Giles-esque way that he was immediately pegged as a Watcher, even if there was the very noticeable absence of a British accent when he opened his mouth. “It’s really okay, Mrs. Bassett. Slayer Potential ability often manifests itself in physical aggression.” He winked at Lily. “Something tells me you’ll have quite the roundhouse.”

Buffy gaped for a moment, then met Spike’s amused gaze. “This is so weird.”

Spike chuckled. “Circus animals all on show here.”

“Huh?”

“Just a bit of bastardized Yeats, pet.”

Buffy frowned in thought. She’d covered some Yeats in her English classes, but that line didn’t seem familiar. Of course, Spike had been around since Yeats was  _alive_. In fact, they were actually probably about the same age. Weird. “Will you show it to me later?”

Spike blinked at her. “The poem?”

“Yep.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Sure.”

Mrs. Bassett and her daughter left a minute later and the young Watcher turned his attention to them, nodding slightly to Spike. He reminded her a little of Oz, short and stocky, with a lithe grace that spoke of innate strength or—more likely in this case—years of training.

“You’re running a bit later than usual,” the Watcher said easily in greeting, hand running down a short beard.

Spike shrugged, his stance shifting to that casual kind of cockiness that just screamed ‘I don’t give a damn.’ “Had a bit of cargo.” He nodded to Buffy. “Meg, this is Ryan, one of the Watchers around these parts. Ryan, this is Meg, the Potential I mentioned.”

Ryan turned a warm, curious smile on her. “So you’re the Potential who was wandering around a demon bar.” His expression shifted to a small grin. “Not the first one. You all seem to go looking for trouble.”

Spike snorted. “Like pigs to mud.”

Buffy elbowed him before she could stop herself. “Like you’re any different.”

Ryan paused, eyes flicking between them. “You two… know each other?”

Crap. Buffy and Spike both froze, although the vampire forcibly relaxed after a moment, so quickly she hoped Ryan hadn’t caught the delay. “Known her for years. Lost touch for a bit, though. Didn’t expect to find her in this neck of the woods.”

Buffy felt her chest loosen in relief at the easy way Spike’s explanation rang of truth. Of course, it  _was_ the truth, in the vaguest way possible.

“Yep, years,” she echoed.

Ryan looked at her squarely. “So you know what Spike is.”

“Master vampire and Slayer of Slayers, you mean?”

Ryan’s face flashed surprise. “Uh, yeah.” He turned to Spike questioningly, but the vampire just shrugged, leaving the Watcher to eye them both in bemusement as he waited for further explanation. When nothing more was offered after a minute, he smartly moved on. “Well, it’s our pleasure to have you here, Meg.” He scanned her speculatively. “Eighteen?”

Buffy blinked. “I’m nineteen.”

Ryan nodded absently and gestured to a small white sphere sitting on the corner of the desk. It rested on a small wooden base with the inscription  _the light of potential brightens a dim world_  running its length.

“If you wouldn’t mind touching the globe, please.”

Buffy eyed it warily. “What’s it do?”

“It just provides confirmation of your status.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Entirely painless.”

Hesitantly, Buffy reached out and rested her palm on the top. Immediately, a flash of white light nearly blinded her and she snatched her hand away.

Ryan made a small sound of satisfaction. “Excellent.” He moved to his computer and started typing something. “We keep records on all identified Potentials—it sounds like you may’ve already registered with a different Council branch?”

“Um, no, actually. I learned about my… potential from a family friend. A witch."

“Ah. Well, in that case, we’d greatly appreciate getting you on record.” Ryan passed an iPad across the desk, his expression turned slightly apologetic. “I’m not sure what you’ve been told, but—considering your age—the chances of you being Called are astronomically low.”

Buffy really didn’t have the heart to tell him that probably guaranteed it would happen, with her kind of luck.

“However,” Ryan continued kindly, “all unCalled Potentials are still offered a complete training regimen and highly encouraged to apply for Watcher apprenticeship.”

She could become a Watcher? Huh. Probably not the ideal career for her, since research was still as much  _not_  her thing now as it had been twenty years ago. Still, the set-up was intriguing.

“So, you’ve thrown out the whole ‘Watcher takes young girl away from family to secretly raise her’ thing?”

Ryan grimaced. “I take it your family friend hasn’t been keeping up with the Council the last few decades.”

“Out of date information then?’

Ryan laughed. “Definitely. Beyond that practice having been sort of, um, shady, it’s just not an efficient use of resources. And,” his eyes flicked to Spike momentarily, “as was pointed out to the Council upon its reorganization, Slayers with family and friends are more likely to stay alive.”

 _Yeah, and get resurrected_ , she thought petulantly, before swallowing down her bitterness and trading it for gratitude as Spike drew closer to her, not quite touching her shoulder with his own. Spike had obviously told the Council how to make the Slayers stronger—how to give them the latest expiration date possible—against everything he used to believe in. She resisted the urge to turn around and kiss him for it.

“Of course,” Ryan continued with a shrug, “it’s up to each girl if they want to inform their family of their… status. We do recommend it, as there are still entities out there who find use for Potential Slayers for various rituals and so on.” He paused. “I assume your family is aware?”

“Um.” Buffy bit her lip. “No.”

“If you’d like, we can–”

“No!” Buffy softened the outburst with a smile, one she knew still didn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you, but no.” The last thing she was going to do was disrupt her happy, normal family by telling them anything to do with slaying and the supernatural. They’d already kind of lost the cosmic lottery by having to put up with a reincarnated Slayer for a daughter—they didn’t need the burden of knowing it; or dealing with the reality of things that went bump in the night.

Hoping to cover the awkwardness, Buffy grabbed the iPad and scanned the form on its screen. It was pretty basic stuff—name, contact information, health history, knowledge of combat arts, etc.

“When you’re done filling that out,” Ryan said after a moment, “I’d be happy to give you a tour and tell you a little bit more about what we do here, and how the Council of Watchers can support you.” Ryan’s expression turned wry. “Seeing as you’ve known Spike for a while, I’m guessing I have some damage control to do.”

Spike grinned at him. “Not sure what you mean, mate.”

Buffy laughed. “He hasn’t said much about you, if that makes you feel better.”

“It’s my lucky day then,” Ryan said dryly.

When Buffy finished filling out the information form using her assumed name of Meg Gallagher, Ryan ushered her and Spike down a wide hallway, glass-walled rooms to either side. Some were clearly martial arts training spaces, filled with students anywhere from age six to adulthood. Men and women both, Buffy saw to her surprise.

“You have guys here.”

Ryan laughed. “We do. Since we’re technically just a martial arts studio, we never turn down a student, although most of the boys are siblings of our Potentials or those in families familiar with the supernatural.”

Buffy watched as a female instructor led a group of small children in warm-up exercises. “So how does that work, with some people not knowing what’s really happening here?”

“Surprisingly, it’s been pretty easy.” Ryan led them further down the hall and motioned into a more traditional looking classroom, with about twenty seats facing a whiteboard. “The only classes that directly mention the supernatural are limited to Potentials—both for practical and lecture work. We believe a well-rounded education is the first step toward success.” He paused and shot her a crooked smile. “Although, it’s harder to convince the Potentials of that.”

Buffy laughed. “I totally understand.” She eyed the classroom, imagining the students squirming in their seats. The set-up had Willow’s influence written all over it. Wesley’s, too, probably.

“I noticed you put pretty high level martial arts training on your form,” Ryan continued. “If you’re interested, you’re welcome to join one of our advanced classes tonight, just to get a feel for us and meet some of the community?”

Buffy felt a thrill run through her. “I’d love to.”

Spike nudged her subtly as Ryan led them up the stairs to another classroom. “Ankle alright for that kind of work?”

Buffy nodded. “I think I just pulled something. It feels okay now.”

Spike gave her a suspicious look, which was irritating but also probably warranted. Admitting weakness had never been one of her virtues, and that hadn’t really changed in the last twenty years. Actually, it had probably gotten a little worse, as she tried to keep up with the memory of her previous Slayer abilities in a body that just didn’t have the power to accomplish them.

The classroom Ryan led them to was a pretty standard martial arts practice space, the floor covered in thin mats and the walls lined with a myriad of practice weapons, training bags, and dummies. There were eight students in attendance, all Potentials—a couple of them looked about her physical age, and the rest were probably several years younger. Her sort of sisters, Buffy realized with a start; and any one of them might someday be the one called on to save the world on a regular basis. Something deep and conflicted churned in her gut as she stared at the girls; an unbearable desire to let one of them take up the mantle and a complete inability to reconcile them doing so. She knew the burden. She knew the costs. How could she champion someone else learning that?

Shoving away her unease, Buffy let Ryan introduce her to the class instructor, Chloe, an ex-Potential and now Watcher. She was in her late thirties by all appearances, with a heart-shaped face and dark hair she had pulled into a tight bun.

“We’re doing some hybrid work tonight,” Chloe supplied brusquely, “as freestyle fighting tends to be most effective for Slayers in real-world combat.”

Buffy nodded, keeping herself from verbally agreeing only at the last minute. Saying “I know, I remember” probably wasn’t the best way to keep her identity under wraps.

Spike swaggered up to Chloe, shrugging off his duster onto a nearby dummy. “Mind if I break her in, luv?”

Chloe raised a brow. “Tonight? Are you trying to make sure she doesn’t come back?”

One of the younger girls stepped closer with a pout. “But, Spike, you promised me a rematch.”

Buffy bit back a glare. Spike had been her fighting partner since long before the girl had even been alive. She  _so_ had dibs.

Luckily for the younger girl’s health, Spike just chuckled. “You’ll get your chance soon, Nibblet, don’t you fret.” He turned an intense gaze on Buffy. “But Meg and I here are due for a round.”

Chloe blinked in surprise. “Due? You two know each other?”

“Since I was young,” Buffy said firmly, with a territorial edge.

“It appears Spike is full of surprises,” Ryan added, watching the vampire closely as he leaned against the wall. It wasn’t a suspicious look, per se, but it was curious enough to tell Buffy very clearly that Spike kept his business to himself outside of work.

“Well,” Chloe allowed, “we’ll let Spike and Meg take the first bout, then.”

Buffy licked her lips in anticipation, toeing off her shoes and carefully knotting her scarf around her neck so it wouldn’t get in the way. As she finished her preparations, Chloe extended a stake toward her, to Buffy’s recoiled motion. “What? No.”

Chloe frowned. “It’s for your safety.”

“ _No_.” Buffy straightened angrily, gaze flicking from Chloe to Ryan and back. Both looked surprised at her vehemence, and she realized with a start that—for all their civil acquaintance with Spike—they still didn’t trust that his demonic urges wouldn’t turn him into a ravaging beast at any random point. Were they stupid? Spike had been holding in his natural instincts for more than two decades to help their ungrateful behinds.  _For her_ , added a small, pleased voice in the back of her head. Her anger rose a notch higher.

“Pet.” Spike touched her arm, and Buffy turned to him with a huff. “They’re just being what they are. Same as me.”

Buffy pursed her lips, but let her stiffened stance fade under Spike’s calm blue gaze, which he let wash into amber for emphasis. “You’re not insulted?”

He snorted. “Why would I be insulted? I’m a bloody Slayer killer. They  _should_  be fucking wary of me.”

Oh, geez. Buffy rolled her eyes. “Sorry, I seem to have forgotten you don’t mind a bad reputation.”

He grinned at her, backing up so that he was positioned in the middle of the room. “Prefer it, matter of fact.” He bounced on the balls of his feet with clear eagerness, eyes never leaving hers, even as the students crowded around the edges of the mat whispering. “Now come and get it, luv.”

Well, how could she turn down that kind of invitation?

“Happily,” she chirped, and lunged.

Spike easily batted away her forceful attack, rolling back and thrusting an open palm toward her shoulder.

Buffy frowned in surprise as she dodged the blow. “Open palms? You think I can’t take a fist?”

“Not the point here,” Spike answered casually, lashing out again.

This time the attack caught her under the chin and her head snapped back. Still, she turned the stumble into a smooth rejoinder and kicked Spike in his ribs, to his clear surprise.

He danced away, a delighted grin lightening his face. “Well, well. That was a nice move.”

“I’ve had good teachers.”

“Looks like.”

They traded a set of blows, and Buffy had to intermittently remind herself that they had an audience. It was entirely too easy to lose herself in the dance with Spike—partly out of necessity and partly because it was just plain fun. She had always enjoyed fighting Spike. Though she would have likely never admitted it in Sunnydale, she had missed that after the chip. Sure, she could beat on him and—later—fight beside him, but it wasn’t quite the same. There was a kind of chaotic, feral glee in his fighting style that no other opponent had been able to replicate. It was, probably subconsciously, one of the reasons she’d never been able to kill him. And now, she simply couldn’t (not to mention the fact that she  _wouldn’t_ , anyway).

There was a sharp pang of disappointment to the idea that—when Spike could actually fight her again—she was no longer much of an opponent. It bristled. She wanted to tell him to stop pulling his punches, but—even in her irritated pride—she knew his full power would potentially do severe damage to her current body (hello, bruised neck).

Not to mention she that was pretty much having to pull out all the stops at present just to stay in the game. Spike was pulling his punches but he wasn’t pulling his skill, and she marveled at his speed and grace, once so close to her own and now so far above it.

In the end, it was over too soon. She made a wrong movement in a feint and an open palm to her breastbone sent her gasping to the ground. She was effectively pinned on the mat by Spike’s body a moment later. His mouth pressed against her throat for surety of his win as Buffy panted wildly beneath him.

“Mmm, got you,” he growled, and she felt the hard length of his erection press against her hip.

She swallowed roughly from exertion, arousal, and the sudden realization that a room full of Potentials and Watchers were staring at them in their incredibly compromising position. “Spike…”

The warning in her voice was enough for Spike to realize the same. He lifted himself abruptly off of her, extending a hand to help her to her feet. “Nice work, luv,” he said with a mischievous grin.

“Excellent form,” Ryan echoed, looking impressed and thoughtful.

Chloe eyed her in the same evaluating way Ryan had earlier. “Well, it looks like this class is certainly at your training level, Miss Gallagher.” She clapped her hands once and turned back to the rest of the Potentials, who were watching Buffy with mixed expressions of awe and wariness. “Alright, who’s next?”

Buffy ended up staying until the class ended an hour later, and sparring with all of the other Potentials. She beat every one of them, though not as handedly as she’d hoped (one of the younger girls even almost pinned her, which admittedly jabbed at her pride).

“You guys do a really good job,” she told Ryan as she and Spike headed out the door at the end of the night.

“We try,” Ryan said modestly. He paused. “Let me know if you’d like to sign up for official classes, or if you have any questions. You’re always welcome here.”

Buffy hesitated in the doorway. Did she want to come back and live in this world? The answer was there before she even opened her mouth. “I’d like that.”

 

***

 

“So what did you think?” Spike asked as they climbed back into the Desoto.

“It was nice.” Buffy paused, feeling out her sore muscles and mentally running through her conversations with the Watchers. “Well, maybe ‘nice’ isn’t the right word. It was enlightening? Interesting? Sort of weird?”

Spike chuckled. “No doubt. A far cry from the old set-up, innit?”

“Way far away.” Buffy frowned as a sudden thought reached her. “Where’s the current Slayer?”

Spike shrugged. “All over.”

“Huh?”

“Slayer works a bit differently these days. Her home base is wherever she likes, although it’s usually at the Wankers Headquarters in Merry Old. From there, she and her team get sent wherever the big trouble is.”

“Willow’s idea?”

“Believe so.” He tapped briefly on the steering wheel. “Seems to be a successful gig. Current Slayer’s had a good run. Going on five years or so.”

Buffy bit down a sudden surge of jealousy at his proud tone. “What’s she like?”

“Dunno. Never met her.”

“Really? Since when do you not scope out the new Slayer?”

Spike exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the road. “I stay away from them nowadays.”

The edge of pain in his voice was unmistakable. “Since me.”

“Since you,” he agreed softly. There was a slight pause, then he regarded her unreadably from his peripherals. “You fought well tonight.”

Buffy snorted derisively. “I’d have been pinned in under a minute if you’d really let loose.”

“Hey now. Body’s not made to toe-up with my kind of strength anymore, but you’ve certainly got the moves.” He let one hand slide across the space between them to play with one of her copper curls. “You still move a bit like yourself, you know.” He shot her a small smile. “No one moves like you, Buffy. Never has, probably never will.”

She glowed under the praise, a knot in her chest unraveling. It was maybe the best confirmation she’d had that she was still inherently  _her_  in all the ways that mattered. A tingle of pleasure wriggled up from her toes, shockingly potent. She caught Spike’s wandering hand in her own and he stilled immediately, giving a small, surprised gasp as she traced light fingers across his palm. Smiling slightly, Buffy gave his hand her full attention, allowing herself to examine him in a way she'd never done before. His fingers were long, like a pianist's, and she wondered briefly if he'd ever played. His fingertips and upper palm were mostly smooth, an undeniable indicator of his non-dominant hand. His skin in general was cool and taut, but with a light flush from his borrowed blood, the paleness still light-years warmer in color than it had been on Thanksgiving so many years ago, when he had been mostly starved and partially sun sick. She still vividly remembered his cracked and red skin, jarring enough for her to invite him into Giles's home despite every reservation.

She paused her examination with the thought, still grasping Spike’s hand, and his fingers curled tightly against hers with a questioning squeeze. “It’s Thanksgiving break for Pitt this next week.”

Spike glanced over at her in baffled amusement. “Is it now? Big plans?”

“I’m going back to Connecticut.”

“That's where you’re from nowadays?”

“Yep.” Buffy smiled faintly. “I went from one coast to the other. Maybe next time—if there’s a next time—I’ll end up in the middle.”

“That’s not even a smidge funny, Slayer,” Spike growled at her, tugging his hand back.

“Since when does a vampire not like gallows humor?”

“Since you were the one in the bloody gallows!” There was a harsh pause, then Spike added hoarsely, “Again.”

“Spike…”

He just shook his head, looking frustrated and guilty. No matter what she said to him, it didn't seem like it was going to take away his feelings of responsibility for her dying—probably either of the last two times. Buffy sighed and stared out the window.

They didn’t speak again until Spike pulled into her dorm’s parking lot. Shifting the car into park, he sighed explosively. “Sorry, luv.”

“It’s okay. I get it.” She shrugged wryly. “Girl who’s done the dying part here. Unresolved emotions are kind of the name of the game.”

“Yeah.” Spike cleared his throat quietly and then visibly lightened his tone. “So, fancy a bit of company tonight?”

Buffy felt regret lace through her. “I better not. I have some major studying I need to do tomorrow.”

"I could help with that, pet."

"Distracting me with naked things would not be helping. Besides, I need to go to the library."

"Alright, fine," Spike grumbled. "Not tonight."

She took a deep breath. “And then I’m leaving for home Wednesday morning for the holiday.”

Spike just stared at her for a long moment. There was a hard line of tension running through his body. “Guessing that means you're busy for a while," he said finally. "I’ll see you when you get back then?”

Buffy clenched her hands nervously in her lap. “Um, actually, I–”

Spike growled, his eyes flashing. “If you think you’re giving me the slip now, Slayer, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Buffy shook her head violently. “No. No, I'm not doing that.” She lifted a brow. “And, hey, pretty sure I was the one asking  _you_  not to leave earlier tonight.”

Some of the tension in Spike’s face fled, although he still looked wary. “True. But now you've had a few more hours to start in on buyer’s remorse.”

Buffy tried for an exasperated smile. “You happen to owe me a second date, remember? And, um… acrobatics. Don't think I'm letting you get off without paying up.” Her eyes widened, cheeks flushing crimson as she realized, too late, how that sounded. 

Spike grinned. "Not going to let me get off, are you?"

"You know what I meant."

He chuckled, but thankfully let it drop. "Alright, so what's the matter with me coming to see you when you get back?"

“Nothing, but...” Buffy winced as she screwed her courage, the words leaving her in a rush. “Iwasthinkingmaybeyoumightcomewithme.”

Spike stared at her, flabbergasted. “Come… with you?”

“If you want.” 

Spike curled his tongue behind his teeth in that infuriatingly suggestive way of his. And, guh, it was even worse now that she knew firsthand how good that tongue of his actually was. “This idea I like much better, luv. I’ll come wherever you want," he purred.

“Oh. My. God. I’m really starting to miss punching your nose.”

“And my nose has missed your fist punching it. Delicious foreplay, that," he said lasciviously.

"Can you not be serious for five minutes?"

"Depends," he said lightly, before his expression dropped to something intent and unsure. “Buffy… why do you want me there?”

She paused, trying to corral the sudden desire into something verbally coherent. “My new family is part of who I am now,” she said finally. “I think it would be good for you to see them. To see me. The me that’s Buffy Gallagher.”

His head tilted slightly, a soft smile pulling at his lips. “I see you, Buffy. I promise.”

“But you don’t really  _know_  me very well. The new me.”

Spike searched her face. “And you want me to?”

Someone had to. Finding Spike had made her realize exactly how starved she was for that—someone she didn't have to keep secrets from. Someone who could help her keep her growing list of identities straight, and who could maybe stop her from going insane as she tried to figure out what she wanted from this newest shot at life. “Um, yeah. I guess I do.”

Spike frowned and didn’t say anything for so long that she thought for sure he was going to reject her. It was one thing to accept her in a new, powerless body. It was another thing to make nice with people he didn’t even know just because they mattered to her. He was a vampire and had never made any apology for it; maybe asking him to step even further into mundane human territory was unfair after he’d already compromised his entire lifestyle in memory of her. Or maybe by going he’d see how much she’d changed and decide there wasn’t enough of Buffy Summers left to make it worth his time, after all. Cold fear washed down her spine. She opened her mouth to take back the invitation, pausing as Spike fixed her with a bright, warm gaze.

“Well, then,” he said lowly, “looks like we’re taking a sodding road trip to Connecticut, Slayer.”


	9. Meet the Parents

“Christ, never thought I’d be meeting the Slayer's parents again.” Spike paused. “Well, guess it was only the one parent before.”

Buffy gave a sideways look to the vampire who was yet again on her home porch for the first time, only this time there was no minion dusting and world saving truce in progress. This time, Spike was carrying a bowl of whipped jello in one hand and wearing a distinctly uncomfortable expression as he straightened the edges of his purple button down with the other. (The colorful addition was apparently his only wardrobe concession for the occasion, and it was still unbuttoned to reveal the predictably black shirt underneath.)

“Yeah,” she said, unable to keep the amusement from her voice.

Spike’s eyes narrowed with a growl. “Think this is funny?”

“What? That a reincarnated Slayer is standing on her new family’s porch with her century-old vampire boyfriend and somehow they’re both nervous? Yes, it’s stupidly funny.” Buffy grinned winsomely at him, but it faded when his face grew suddenly still and tense. Oh, crap. What had she said now? “Um, Spike?”

Blue eyes flicked to her, unreadable. “Boyfriend?”

She flushed. Oh. The term had sort of just slipped out thoughtlessly, if she was honest, but it didn’t feel wrong. In fact, it felt… nice.  _And if anyone had told me twenty years ago that I would someday think the idea of Spike as my boyfriend sounded ‘nice,’ I’d have laughed them off the hellmouth_. Even now, she hadn’t been thinking of their relationship in that exact term until this moment. Still, she was pretty sure  _vampire who seems to still care about me and who definitely did naked sexy things to me and knows about me—both me’s—and just survived ten hours in the car with me to go meet my parents_  gave Spike the qualifier.

“I know it probably sounds kind of childish, considering,” she said apologetically. Then her eyes widened in understanding. “O-or did you mean that you don’t…” She trailed into silence, biting her lip and determinedly watching the ground by her feet. A sudden tightening in her chest made her ache. Technically four decades old and she was still failing miserably at the whole dating thing; not that she had hardly any experience with it as Buffy Gallagher, anyway.

“Didn’t realize one date made me a boyfriend,” Spike said mildly.

Buffy knew her face was absolutely flaming now. And, ugh, blushing was so much worse in this body. “No, I guess not,” she mumbled. “Forget it.” Not looking at him, she made to knock on the door, but Spike caught her hand midair and held it there. Sighing, she met his eyes with unfiltered annoyance as she unsuccessfully attempted to pull her limb back. Stupid vampire strength. “What?”

Spike tilted his head at her, looking calm and curious. “This gig come with benefits?”

“ _What_?”

“Being your boyfriend, Slayer.” A slow, devious smirk spread across his face as he stepped closer to her, not releasing her arm, and instead sliding his hand down to grasp her elbow. “Sounds like that sort of thing should come with some extras, don’t you think?”

Buffy gaped at him, anger and hurt rising in her as she tried again—unsuccessfully—to wrench her arm back. “You’re looking for incentive to date me? Seriously?” He’d been falling all over himself to date her as Buffy Summers, but apparently not now. Tears prickled in the edges of her eyes and she fought the urge to upend the entire bowl of jello down his front. “Fuck you, Spike.”

His grin faded immediately into worry, his brows furrowing. “Hey now, none of that. I was just yanking your pretty little chain.”

Buffy paused in her attempts to get her arm back, regarding him narrowly. “You were?”

He winced at her uncertain tone. “Yeah, of course I was, luv.” He seemed to struggle with something for a long moment, then sighed and stared at her with serious, vulnerable eyes. “Thought I lost you twenty years ago, Buffy. And now you’re back and… and I’m so bloody in love with you still I can’t see straight.” He let go of her elbow at last, raising his hand to caress her check. “Don’t care if it’s childish or what have you. I can’t imagine anything I’d like better than to be your boyfriend.” He grimaced suddenly. “’Course, if I’d known you were going to introduce me to your family as your lover-boy, I would’ve made more of an effort with the togs. Sorry, pet.”

Buffy stood stunned, unable to still the rush of relief swirling through her. “You still… you love me? Really?”

Spike snorted and gave her a hard look. “As if you didn’t know.”

She shrugged. “You loved Buffy Summers.”

“Yeah, and now I’m in love with Buffy Gallagher,” he said softly, still stroking her cheek. His grin returned in a softened version. “Kind of like this you a bit better, anyhow. Don’t tell the other Buffy, but she was a right bitch.”

Buffy laughed despite herself, then slapped him on the arm. “Ass.”

He smirked at her unrepentantly. “Didn’t say it was always a bad thing, luv, but it did make interactions with you a whole different level of tricky.”

“Depending whether you were looking to be on my good side that day or just trying to piss me off?”

“Got it in one.” His teasing expression fled. “Not so much after you came back, though. You were hurting plenty without me bolloxing up anything more.”

There wasn’t much she could say to that. “Yeah.” She took a deep breath. “But that was a long time ago.”

“It was.”

Buffy jerked her head toward the door. “Ready to meet the parents?”

Spike eyed the entrance with trepidation. “Rather like the idea of standing on this porch until it’s time to be heading back, if I’m honest.”

“Coward.”

He pursed his lips. “Hey, you’re the one who didn’t warn a bloke he needed to look like presentable suitor material. Doubt I’m about to make a solid impression with your folks, Slayer.”

Buffy hid a smile as she knocked on the door. “Just be the charming vamp that I know is hidden in there…. somewhere. Maybe underneath the rubble of your Big Bad reputation, since we both know that’s completely demolished.”

Spike looked at her side-eyed, a grin touching his own lips. “Bitch.”

Buffy had no more than smiled back at him, than her mom was throwing open the front door with a happy cry of “Buffy!” that only a mother whose child had gone away to college could seem to make.

Buffy found herself enveloped into a warm hug, her senses swamped with the smell of her mom—always some mix of the apple-scented candles she liked to burn and her tropical shampoo. Her dark red hair was starting to gray at the temples, but—in true Lara fashion—she was just letting it ‘do its thing.’

“Hi, mom,” Buffy managed as she pulled back from the hug, and her mom ushered them into the front hallway. Buffy murmured a soft, “Come in, Spike,” as she stepped past the threshold, and felt the brief touch of Spike’s palm on the small of her back in thanks.

Once they stepped inside and had the front door closed, Lara turned a keen eye on Spike, who stood awkwardly shifting between feet. “You must be William.” There was a beat. “Although my daughter slipped up a couple times over the phone and called you ‘Spike.’ A nickname, I’m guessing?”

Oops.

Spike cleared his throat, wide-eyed and cradling the jello like a life raft. “A nickname, yeah. Apparently my mum found me miming a bit of jazz—Spike Robinson—as a tyke and, well, the rest is history.”

Buffy stared at the vampire, dumbfounded. Okay, so he was almost twitching (a clear sign Spike was lying) but otherwise the words had rolled right off his tongue. Apparently he’d picked up a PG cover story for his name in the last twenty years.

Lara, meanwhile, gave a tinkling, delighted laugh. “Oh, that’s just wonderful. Well, Spike, welcome to the Gallagher home. Buffy, would you mind taking that bowl from him and joining me in the kitchen once you get your coat off?”

Buffy grimaced as Lara moved down the hallway and into the kitchen. “Sure, mom, be right there.”

As she and Spike shed their coats, Spike gave her a bewildered look. “How is it that you seem to attract mums who are as scary as you are, Slayer?”

A giggle escaped, breaking the tension. “I mean, who else would put up with me?”

He brushed a curl back from her face. “Anyone who gets to be around you is damn lucky, pet.”

She arched a brow. “I’ll remind you of that tomorrow when my extended family arrives. Now hand over the jello so I can go get interrogated. Dad’s probably in the living room fiddling with something if you want to go say hi. Believe me, he’s the less scary of the two.”

“On it, luv.”

Buffy found her mom checking what was probably dinner in the oven when she came into the kitchen. Lara was humming slightly, some low tune that was probably half made up but always sounded good. “Thanks for letting me bring Spike last minute.”

Lara closed the oven door and looked over at her with an amused, knowing expression. “Well, I couldn’t very well give up the opportunity to meet my daughter’s first real boyfriend.”

“You, um, figured that out, huh?” Geez, Lara had figured it out before she had.

“Mhmm.” There was a slight pause. “He looks a bit older than you.”

 _Yeah, by about a century._ “He is, but… he’s very respectful, I promise.”

A small smile quirked the edges of her mom’s lips. “He looks like a punk rocker.”

As if on cue, the sounds of the Ramones started blaring from the living room, and Lara shook her head in resignation. “Which means he’s found the closet punk rocker in the household.” She sighed. “You’d better go rescue him.”

“Dad?”

“No, your boyfriend.” Lara turned back to the fridge and started pulling out heads of lettuce. “Dinner won’t be ready for half an hour. I tremble to think what can be gotten up to by then."

The two traded looks and Buffy grinned. “Wanna bet whether dad starts with the time he met Pete Shelley or on his CD collection?”

Lara winced as the living room volume turned up a notch. “I think they’ve already gotten into the CD's.”

Her mom wasn’t wrong, as it turned out. Buffy stepped into the living room to find Spike and her dad in deep discussion over the blaring music, Spike waving a CD case in the air.

“I’m telling you, if Curtis hadn’t topped himself right after the LP, Joy Division would’ve been bloody unstoppable.”

Paul sat back in his recliner, adjusting the square reader’s lenses mom had browbeat him into wearing. “But they were headed into post-punk territory. If we’re going there, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs have them beat by a mile.”

“In your dreams!” Spike scowled. “Bunch of poufed up teenyboppers, the lot of them.”

Paul blinked and laughed uproariously, noticing Buffy at last. “Funny guy you got here, honey.”

“Um.”

“You know, Spike, all these guys are still older than you, so I think ‘teenybopper’ is a bit harsh.”

Spike looked flat out offended for a moment. “Older? Wha– ah, right. Older.” He threw Buffy a quizzical, amused look. “Didn’t tell me your dad was into punk, pet.”

She shrugged with a wry smile. “I kind of figured he’d take one look at you and that cat would be out of the bag.”

“Buffy here even went through her own punk phase a few years back,” Paul said with amusement. “Lara about killed me for encouraging it but, hey, kids have to explore.”

Spike looked entirely dumbfounded and his scarred brow rose nearly to his hairline as he surveyed Buffy seriously, to her chagrin. “That a fact.” He stepped closer to her, head tilting. “Loads of things you’ve not mentioned, it seems.”

“Wasn’t on the top ten reunion topics list,” she muttered lowly.

“I’m sure we’ve got some photos of it here somewhere,” Paul said jovially, rising from his chair and heading to a laptop desk in the corner of the room. “She even dressed up as Joan Jett one Halloween. I think Lara had to cut her out of the leather pants later,” he added with a chuckle, staring intently at the computer screen as he searched for the elusive photos.

Spike’s stare on her was now entirely predatory as he stepped nearer, fingers brushing her upper arms in a way just designed to make her shiver. “Don’t suppose you’d be up for recreating that sometime?”

Buffy snorted. “You did hear the part about me needing scissors to get out of it, right?”

He chuckled, a husky sound that vibrated sinfully against her skin, and flashed his fangs momentarily. “Oh, we wouldn’t need that bit of machinery, pet.”

Her breath caught in her chest at the imagined eroticism of Spike literally cutting her out of her clothes with his teeth. Still, she managed to give him an arch look, even if it was probably ruined by her pounding heart. “Think we should probably, uh, do it normally first,” she whispered, glancing over at her dad, who was thankfully ignoring them as he browsed through photo albums.

Spike curled up his tongue behind his teeth, his voice a low rumble. “Oh, Slayer, I’d shag you here right now if I didn’t think your folks would take issue.”

“Ugh, gross, Spike.”

He shrugged unapologetically, still smirking in that annoying, self-satisfied way of his.

“Oh honey, look,” Paul exclaimed, startling Buffy and Spike both, “I found the sailing competition photos.” He smiled at Spike. “She took third, you know.”

Spike blinked, his expression shifting to incredulous as he stared at her. “You  _sail_?”

“Um, yep.”

“Our Buffy’s a young lady of many talents,” Paul said proudly, turning back to the computer.

Spike shook his head, blue eyes fixed intently on hers, a trace of amused admiration running through them. “No bloody kidding.”

 

***

 

They made it through dinner with only minor mishaps and limited swearing (both on Spike’s part), so it was overall a success. Her mom initially still seemed wary of Spike, but had relaxed throughout the meal, especially when Spike started talking about London.

“Once we retire,” Lara said decisively, “it’s the first place I want us to visit, Paul.”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“Spike, you just talk about the history in such detail,” her mom said in amazement as she nursed a cup of after-dinner coffee. “I’d almost believe you lived through it.”

Spike smiled charmingly at her. “Always had a love for older times and places, mum. My family liked to travel, so I’ve been all over. Pick your fancy and I bet I have a story.”

Buffy listened with a kind of amazement as Spike somehow managed to make his psychotically evil family adventures sound like the rompings of a worldly kid and his parents. For the first real time, she understood exactly how Joyce had become friends with him even when he was unrepentantly evil.

Of course, while Spike and Lara seemed content to chat all night, Buffy was getting admittedly antsy. Across from her, Paul was absentmindedly shredding a napkin, and she caught the telltale signs of his leg jiggling beneath the table (the salt and pepper shakers were doing some independent shaking, for one). Between her leftover Slayer-y self, new Potential, and Gallagher genetics, it was probably a wonder she could sit still at all. Taking pity on her dad and herself, she dove into the conversation at the next lull.

“Sorry to steal your private Travel channel here, mom, but I was kind of hoping to show Spike around town tonight.”

Paul’s eager, “Yes, let Buffy show him the sights, darling,” earned him an amused, knowing look from Lara before she waved them on.

“Go. Have fun. And be careful.” She rolled her eyes as the other three members of the table sprang up with whiplash speed. “And I’ll make sure to have the blinds drawn before I head to bed, Spike.”

The vampire startled, but managed to recover gracefully. “Uh, thanks, mum.”

When they finally escaped out the door—Paul to the garage and Buffy and Spike out the front door—Spike turned a questioning eye on her. “Tell your mum I have a sun allergy, did you?”

“Medication issue. Makes you super sun sensitive.”

Spike snorted as they strolled down the street, eyes twinkling in the dark. “This medication make my skin feel cool then, too?”

“I’d say it’s a definite possibility.”

His rumbling laugh warmed Buffy down to her toes, and she hesitantly reached for his hand, enjoying his surprised smile as he obliged her, twining cool fingers around hers. “I like your family, kitten.”

“I think mom’s sort of in love with you.”

“That was the goal,” he murmured. “If the mum doesn’t like me, then I don’t have a chance with the girl.”

“Well, you’re two for two now,” Buffy said in amusement. “And dad was pretty much a given before you even met.”

“A good man, your dad,” Spike said firmly. “Loads better than the bloody wastrel you had before. Good thing he never showed his worthless arse after Sunnyhell, or I’d have eaten him.”

Buffy sucked in a breath. “Speaking of eating…”

“Got enough blood stashed in the boot of the car to last me until we head back, Slayer, don’t worry.” Spike sniffed the air experimentally. “Might get a bit chilly tonight, but won’t be cold enough to freeze.” He cocked his head curiously at her. “Any particular reason you wanted out and about, luv? Impatience notwithstanding.”

“Noticed, huh?”

He squeezed her fingers with a chuckle. “Between you and your dad, could about taste it.”

She shrugged her agreement, and they walked in silence for a short while. It was cold out, but not so cold yet that it required bundling up past a warm coat (at least, to her East Coast sensibilities—Buffy of California would have been freezing her behind off), and the stars were clear and bright in the early evening. Beside her, Spike was gliding in the dark like an extension of it, his head tilting slightly as he surveyed their surroundings and his nostrils flaring intermittently. His white blond hair was practically glowing in the dark, slightly tousled, making him look like nothing so much more than a sexy bad boy out for an evening stroll.

“I miss being able to feel you,” she blurted, amazed at the sense of regret that was coursing through her.

Spike stumbled in his steps before recovering and regarding her with surprised, slightly mischievous eyes. “Feel me?”

Buffy motioned toward her neck with her free hand in explanation. “No tinglies.” She sighed. “I mean, if I didn’t know you, I’d think you were just some guy, you know?”

Spike smirked at her, running a suggestive hand down his chest. “Oh, pet, I’ll never be  _some_  guy.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and tugged on his hand, crossing the street. “C’mon, egomaniac.”

Spike grinned, obediently following. “We heading somewhere in particular, luv?”

She pulled a stake out from her coat pocket with a victorious twirl. “It’s no hellmouth, but I figured we could check out the cemetery action.” She paused, tightening her grip on Spike's hand. “It’s been way too long since I’ve patrolled with you.”

Spike’s entire face brightened and she watched him nearly bounce on the balls of his feet in excitement. “Way too bloody long, Slayer. Lead on.”


	10. Teenage Dreams Were Made of This

She and Spike made a long circuit of the nearby Danbury cemeteries, all without luck. At the last one, Buffy huffed and motioned at one of the tombstones—so old that the writing had mostly worn away.

“I don’t think anyone’s been buried here since the Civil War.”

Spike squinted at the headstone. “Think that one’s closer to your War for Independence, pet.”

“Ugh.” The whole thing had been a complete slaying date disaster. If there had been one thing she could count on in Sunnydale, it was the herds of dumb fledglings just waiting to be staked on a nightly basis. “I guess we’ll just head back,” she said reluctantly, starting to turn around, when Spike held up a hand in a ‘wait’ motion.

“Spike?”

“Hear something,” he muttered, eyes narrowed as he peered into the dark.

She brightened. “Fledge? Demon?”

“Not sure,” was his low reply, his posture shifting just enough that no one could mistake him for a random guy off to see dead Aunt Gertrude at the witching hour. There was something too caged about him, as if all his muscles were vibrating on a hair trigger. And then, like a shot, he was off into the dark, darting forward so quickly that she almost didn’t see.

There was a low growl and a terrified squeal, then silence.

Buffy moved slowly forward toward Spike’s still silhouette about a hundred feet away. “That didn’t sound very evil.”

“Wasn’t,” he said shortly, motioning downward.

And there, dead on the ground, was what looked like a giant rodent. If giant rodents had scales and really hideously folded ears. Buffy frowned at it. “What is that?”

“Kulslag. Burrowing type.”

“Dangerous?”

“To your everyday person? Nah. But they’re a damn nuisance.” He glanced around the cemetery. “Come in large packs. Wouldn’t doubt they’ve got tunnels underneath this whole place. They like ground that’s muddled but not moving.”

“So cemeteries are a big win.” Buffy eyed the creature more closely. “I’m really sure I never saw any in Sunnydale, though.”

Spike flashed her a quick grin. “You wouldn’t, pet. Loads of demons think they’re tasty treats.”

“Ugh.” She couldn’t help but glare at the rodent demon in disgust before turning and resolutely heading out of the cemetery.

Spike was by her side a second later, looking at her curiously. “Alright there?”

“No,” she muttered, knowing she sounded petulant and  _young_  and really not caring. “This was a gigantic waste of time.”

Spike didn’t reply to that, to her surprise. She had at least expected an echo of her disappointment. Keeping himself restrained from killing humans had to drive his unchipped demon up the wall if he wasn’t getting in bloodshed elsewhere, although he seemed to hide it well. She bit the bottom of her lip in thought. “There’s a demon bar on the north side of town. If we go get your car, we can stir up some trouble there?”

Spike halted on the sidewalk, his expression unreadable. “Who’re you trying to prove something to, Buffy? You or me?”

She blinked at him. “What?”

His jaw clenched. “Because you know right where I stand. My chips are on the bloody table.” His expression grew rueful. “And my balls and my unbeating heart and pretty much about any other piece of me with any value.”

“I don’t–“

“You said you wanted to patrol,” he provided tersely. “We patrolled, pet. And there was nothing around. Disappointing, yeah, but not really a surprise in these parts.” His eyes flashed in the dark. “So what you wanted was sure as fuck not that. Not that I couldn’t bloody guess by the way I found you. You had no business in that side of town, not to mention that kind of bar.”

She glared at him in angry bafflement, arms crossing against her chest. “I was looking for  _you_!”

Spike stiffened, his expression turning cold. “What you were looking for,” he said in a low growl, “was something you don’t have anymore.” At Buffy’s look of hurt confusion, he lifted a brow. “How many close calls have you had in this body, Buffy? How many times has something nasty almost sunk its teeth in you?” He stepped forward menacingly. “How many times have you been a whisper from death, luv?”

Buffy swallowed, unable to take her eyes from his furious ones as guilt and shame trickled down her spine. “Spike…”

He snarled at her. “ _How many times_!”

“A lot! A lot, okay?!” she burst out, waving her hands angrily. “Are you happy now?” At Spike’s resigned sigh, she winced, deflating. “I... I like what I have now, Spike. I love my family and I like my life.”

Spike considered her unreadably. “But?”

She looked down at the sidewalk, everything inside her twisting painfully. “But something’s missing. Maybe I only feel this way because I’m a Potential, but I was a Potential before, too, and it wasn’t like this.”

There was a beat of silence, then Spike said softly, “I’m sure it wasn’t, pet. You didn’t know anything before.” She lifted her head and caught his understanding gaze. “I’ve been around my fair share of bitty almost-Slayers in the past two decades, and even the more informed types don’t really get what their urges mean. Usually, they’ve ended up taking up a violent sport or two and been satisfied.” He tilted his head at her. “But that would never work for you. You’ve done what you’re made for. You’ve fought the dark itself. You know what it feels like to save the sodding  _world_.”

Buffy let out a shuddering sigh, suddenly at a loss. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t want it back, but I do.” She held his gaze tentatively. “And I sort of thought finding you would make everything make a little more sense.”

He snorted. “Yeah? How’s that been going for you?”

A wry smile curved up her lips. “You’ve made it worse.” She looked at him shyly. “But it wasn’t about proving anything to you tonight, you know.”

He searched her face carefully. “No?”

“No. I mean, mostly not.” She fingered the stake in her coat pocket convulsively. “The thing about slaying in this body is… I’ve missed you when I’ve done it. By the end of me in Sunnydale, fighting demons with you was pretty much the only part of my day that I liked anymore. And I kind of want that back again.”

Spike swallowed roughly, his expression turning awed and his voice escaping in a soft whisper. “Oh, Buffy…” He tugged her tight against him, his fingers pressing firmly into her hips and his eyes dark and intent. “Slaying’s not the only way to work together, pet.”

She shivered at the low timbre of his voice, the heavy press of his erection against her stomach. “I know,” she murmured. “The nights when I went out hunting here…” She tried to swallow her embarrassment and finish the sentence—it wasn’t as if she hadn’t already told him—but her voice wouldn’t cooperate.

“Are the nights you diddled your girly self in bed?” Spike guessed huskily.

“Mhm.”

Spike dipped his head low and pressed a teasing, promising kiss just below her ear. “Think I’d like to see that bed.”

Her eyes widened. “You want us to have sex in my parents’ house?”

He chuckled lowly. “Or right here. Or in your neighbor’s lawn. I’m not picky.” He pressed another kiss along her jawline, this one deeper and more possessive. “Don’t care where, but I want to have you tonight. Been wanking like mad ever since I tasted your sweet cunny and hasn’t done a fucking bit of good.” His mouth slid to her lips and she shivered with anticipation. “Do you know,” he whispered, “how often I wanted to pull the car over on the way here and ravish you silly?”

Her breath hitched in her throat. “How often?”

“Every sodding second,” he growled, capturing her mouth in a fierce, hard kiss that left her insides burning.

When he pulled back to let her breathe, his pupils were black with lust, tinted with amber. The heat in them threw her admittedly weak reservations right out the window. He wasn’t the only one who had been fixating on their… studying session. When she’d climbed into bed after meeting the Watchers, her bed still smelled of him—all leather and nicotine and musky pine—and she’d regretted sending him away almost immediately. So what if she had a bunch of exams? It wasn’t like she hadn’t spent most of her first life playing the ‘I’ll just wing it’ game. Unfortunately, for better or worse, she hadn’t asked for Spike's cell phone number, so there was no way to reach him before their decided time.

“We’ll have to be very quiet,” she said thickly, stepping slightly away on the sidewalk in the direction of her house.

Spike gave her a smoldering look. “I can be silent as the grave, pet.” A smirk drew across his face. “But if I’m doing my job right, you’ll be screaming.”

“You are so full of it.”

“No, I just know that you’ve been making do with college boys”—he lifted a mocking brow—“who think saying the bloody alphabet with their tongue is the kama sutra. And who are apparently the stupidest wankers on this green earth besides, for letting you out of their sight after tasting your delicious body.” His voice shifted to a low purr. “A  _real_  bloke could live between your legs forever.”

Buffy rolled her eyes at his clear implication of just who that ‘real bloke’ was, feeling a hint of mischief take her. “Is that right? Know where I could find one such guy?” She affected a thoughtful expression. “Or maybe I should start with two guys. Or, ooh, maybe three. I do have several so-so one-night stands to make up for. Actually, you know what, maybe just bring me a full dozen.”

Spike’s gaze widened then narrowed as he prowled toward her. “Oh, pet,” he growled, “you’ll need more than a dozen blokes to keep up with me.”

She grinned at him, eyes sparkling. “Guess you’ll just have to prove that.” Then she took off sprinting down the sidewalk.

“You little minx, you’re in for it now!” was Spike’s startled call after her.

Buffy laughed, pushing herself faster as she heard his booted feet chase behind her, purposefully not quite catching her as they zigzagged back to the Gallagher home. When they reached the front door, Spike finally reached out and snagged her, grinding his erection against her hip. “You have no idea what you running like that does to me,” he said huskily.

She bit back a moan, somehow managing a breathless, “You are seriously disturbed.”

“Vampire, luv. Comes with the territory.” He grinned. “And don’t even pretend you didn’t like being chased. You’re practically dripping.”

She blindly fumbled with the front door handle behind her, grateful when it finally yielded. “Get inside.”

Spike snaked his tongue behind his teeth. “That was the general idea.”

Unable to keep her heart from feeling like it wanted to jump from her chest, Buffy just tugged the suggestive vampire inside and locked the door, and then swiftly pulled him toward her bedroom.

Her parents hadn’t touched her room in the couple months since she’d left for college, except to apparently freshen the linens, and so it stood just as it had for most of her newest childhood, with her twin bed and compact desk and small bevy of stuffed animals (no one outgrew those).

Spike paused just inside the door once she’d closed it, giving the room a predatorial sweep. “Not nearly as many frilly bits as your old room,” he murmured.

Buffy snorted a laugh as she awkwardly sat on the edge of her bed. “Geez, I hope not. Wasn’t actually a child this time. Mostly mentally, at least.” She lifted a brow. “And you still remember my old room?”

Spike shifted toward her desk, examining some old calendar riddled with ancient to-do’s. “Course I do,” he said casually. “Was at the top of the  _index librorum prohibitorum_.”

Buffy blinked at him. “The… what?”

“Er, just an old phrase for a bit of the forbidden, luv.”

“Oh.” She watched him narrowly. “First poetry, now Latin. Better watch it, Spike, or else I’m going to think you’re a closet Giles.”

Spike spun to her with wide eyes, growling as he caught her smirk. His nostrils flared and he stepped toward her. “As I was saying,” he said in a deep, dangerous tone that sent her belly fluttering, “your girly little bedroom in Sunnyhell was off-limits to the likes of me.”

“And yet I clearly remember you barging in on more than one occasion.”

He halted in front of her, leaning down slightly to place massaging hands on her knees, his expression suddenly serious. “But that’s exactly what it was, Slayer. Barging in. And you’d always toss me right out as soon as you could.” His jaw clenched. “I would’ve paid most any price to be invited there.”

Buffy found herself licking her lips, her body feeling hot and jittery at his closeness. “Any price?” she whispered.

Blue eyes swallowed her with intensity. “Any.”

“Darn,” she murmured. “If I’d known that, I’d have charged admission before dragging you in here.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and it was impossible to know who moved first, except that suddenly she was rising to wrap her arms around Spike’s neck and her legs around his waist and he was propelling them back further onto the bed, and they were kissing with a kind of desperate, needy ferocity that set her blood to boiling. Clothes were shed blindly, and she knew from the merciless way that her jeans were torn off that they were probably now in rag territory. Her bra was probably a complete loss, too. Still, for all that her coverings were treated with complete carelessness, she could tell by the vibrating tension of Spike's muscles that he was curtailing his strength to some kind of large degree. An anxious, regretful ache rose heavy and tight in her throat.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, as Spike trailed a hungry line of kisses down her neck, fingers tweaking her nipples and teasing the small mounds into almost painful hardness.

“For what?” he mumbled, nipping at her collarbone and groaning as her left hand squeezed one of his incredibly muscular butt cheeks.

“I’m so weak.”

Spike paused, looking up at her sternly. “Hush. Already had this discussion.”

“But–” The rest of her words cut off with a moan as a finger found her wet folds and brushed unforgivingly against her clit. The cheater. Still, at this juncture, what was the point? No apology was going to change the situation and she sure as heck didn’t want to stop what they were doing. Besides, she thought a bit queasily, Spike was probably more than used to it, with the way he’d been hunting for the past however many years. Jealousy rose bright and insistent, burning out the guilt, and she growled slightly. The noise startled Spike as he slid down her body and he looked up at her questioningly.

“Luv?”

She wound her fingers tightly into his now mussed hair, admiring the sculpted lines of his back and shoulders. “You’re mine?”

“Yours,” Spike affirmed huskily. “All yours, Buffy Gallagher.”

The pointed use of her new name sent a trill of pleasure running through her. “Good.”

Spike cocked his head slightly at her, his mouth lifting into a small, true smile. Then he winked and finished his descent, spreading her legs apart with firm intention. “There you are,” he muttered, gazing in between her legs. “Look at that pretty cunt.” He ran a teasing finger from her weeping folds and swirled some of her juices around her swollen and desperate clit. “So bloody gorgeous and wet for me.”

A harsh, keening moan rose from her and her fingers tightened in Spike’s hair as her hips arched off the bed. His fingers withdrew from her most needed place, instead tracing her outer lips with a maddening, featherlight touch. Oh god, he was going to drive her insane if he didn’t do something more soon. “Spike… please…”

He chuckled against her, cool breath washing against her inner thigh. “Tell me, luv, when you got yourself off to that picture of me, what were you thinking of?”

Buffy blinked, trying to bring her mind back from the brink of frustrated incoherence. “Huh? I was thinking of you…”

“No, pet, what I mean is, what was I doing to you?” His voice grew husky and low. “Was I putting my mouth here, getting you all trembling?” She felt the sudden press of his tongue as he flicked it against her clit, sending her gasping. “Were my fingers tucked inside your tight pussy, filling you up?” The fingers in question slipped inside her, bent in a damning come-hither motion.

“Oh, god.”

“Tell me, Slayer,” Spike demanded softly, plunging three fingers into her as he tongued her clit.

She whimpered, wondering distantly how the hell he expected her to actually string words together well enough to tell him anything at the moment.

Another merciless stroke of his fingers, hitting some spongy place inside her that sent her knees trembling. “Tell me.”

“Ahh-h, neither,” she managed breathlessly. Sudden panic swarmed her insides. “But don’t stop!”

“Couldn’t if I wanted to,” he admitted. Then, with a groan, he buried his head fully between her thighs and started licking her with incredible abandon, his fingers never straying from their rhythmic thrusting.

Ticklish heat welled deep and demanding in her belly as she drowned in the cool talent of his touch. She was falling off the edge before she even realized it, her pussy clenching violently around him as pleasure arced down to her toes and spread up her spine, leaving her quaking and… was that  _her_  voice screaming Spike’s name?

And then Spike was at eye level, his wet lips covering hers in a sound-swallowing kiss before she woke the rest of the household.

“Told you I’d make you scream, didn’t I?” he murmured with a grin when he released her.

“Yeah, yeah,” she managed hoarsely, almost dizzy with pleasure. “You proved your point. Operation ‘make Buffy a pile of mush’ is complete.”

“Oh no, luv, not hardly.” Spike's erection pressed insistently against her stomach as she trembled with the aftershocks of her orgasm. “You still haven’t told me what I was doing to you in your fantasies.”

Buffy blushed, unable to keep her hands from running down his chest as he covered her, exploring all the lines of his muscles and watching them shiver under her touch. “It was nothing exciting.”

Spike jumped slightly as her questing fingers reached his hipbone, swallowing heavily. His eyes flickered amber. “Impossible.” He arched a brow. “And considering the point of it, can’t have exactly been boring.”

She laughed. “Well, no, but…” She bit her lip. “You were just… inside of me.”

There was a heated pause, then Spike reached a hand between them, positioning himself so that his cock was brushing against her folds, sending small spasms through her sensitized flesh. “Inside of you—like this?” He shifted the head of his cock so that it rested just against her entrance, nestled between her spread thighs.

Buffy lay quivering, her hands clutching his back as she stared into his questioning and lust-laden gaze. “You’re not inside yet,” she whispered.

He thrust his hips forward just barely, so that he was breaching her by no more than an inch, to her gasping cry as she threw her head back against the comforter.

“How about now? Is this what you imagined?”

She shook her head violently. “No.”

Another inch. Her fingers dug into his back, scrambling for relief against the torturous dual sensation of being stretched full and left terribly empty. She wrapped her legs up and around his waist, attempting to pull him all the way into her, but he wouldn’t budge. “Spike, please!”

“Now?” he asked her hoarsely, stubbornly.

Evil, evil vampire! He was going to kill the both of them with this game. “More,” she demanded gaspingly. “All of it.”

She had no more gotten the words out than Spike had buried himself to the hilt inside her.

“Christ,” he gasped. “Oh, Buffy. Oh, fuck.” His free hand came up behind her shoulder, tangling in her hair, as he rested his forehead against the joint of her shoulder and neck, panting.

“Ah-huh,” was all her overloaded brain could muster. At this point, she’d at least had enough sexual experience to know how a skinny cock filled her versus a thick one or a long one or a bent one or whatever. Visually, Spike’s generous proportions had warned her that he would fill her completely. But she had no idea just how full that would actually be. Her pussy was pulsing, every nerve awake and thrumming against the sensation that was a fraction away from pain.

Spike ran a long line of kisses across her jaw, apparently sensing her tension. “You alright, pet?” He trembled against her. “Gonna need to move soon.”

“Move,” she agreed deliriously. “Move now.”

He didn’t need telling twice. 

“You feel amazing,” Spike babbled at her, his left hand tightening in her hair as his other slipped between them to play with her clit while he plunged into her with hard thrusts. “So sodding good, luv. Nothing like you. God, never been anything like you.”

Buffy shook her head even as she mewled desperately against him, on the verge of another orgasm. “Don’t lie.”

He paused mid-thrust and she found herself staring into unforgiving blue eyes. “It’s not a lie,” he said sharply. His expression softened at her disbelief and he added, “It’s you, you daft bird.  _I love you_. Means no one else can hold a bloody candle to you.”

Buffy swallowed roughly, trying to stymy the flood of emotions rising in her as she pressed a tender kiss to his lips. “You’re a sap."

Spike chuckled. “Don’t I know it.”

Then he started thrusting again, and anything else she could even contemplate saying—like,  _I don’t understand why you love me still,_  And,  _you were right, college boys were_ so _the wrong way to go_ —fell away as her second orgasm took her. Spike rode it through with her, whispering a mix of endearments and praise in her ear. It took her a minute to realize his voice was softly lisping, a sure sign that he’d vamped out.

“Spike?”

He shifted his hips back, pulling his cock nearly entirely out before plunging deep back inside, and making her almost forget that she’d spoken. Almost. Buffy dug her heels into his back until he groaned. “Spike.”

“Yeah?”

“Look at me.”

His hand tightened in her hair, tugging her face away from him as they surged and fell in a deep, unforgiving rhythm. “No.”

“Spike…”

“No,” was his harsh reply. Then he stiffened slightly in his motions, pace increasing and turning irregular. “Oh fuck, Buffy,” he groaned, clutching her as his cock jerked and he spilled himself inside her.

When he rolled off her to the side a moment later, he was in his human guise, eyes closed as he panted needlessly. She shifted toward him and Spike blindly enveloped her in a tight embrace, leaning his forehead down to hers.

“That was brilliant,” he murmured.

“Yeah.” She bit her lip. “Why wouldn’t you look at me?”

He pulled back from her slightly, a line creasing his brow as his eyes blinked open. “Lost control.”

“You vamped.”

He nodded, jaw clenching. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Buffy touched his brow in puzzlement, trying to smooth it out. “I didn’t care. I just wanted to see.”

That seemed to give Spike pause, but then he just shook his head. “Still shouldn’t have happened.”

“Confused girl here. You’re a vampire. I’ve seen your game face plenty. Really not worried about it.”

Spike sighed. “It’s not the seeing it that’s the issue, Buffy.”

“Then what is?”

He regarded her gravely. “Demon’s fallen into the habit of sex meaning food.” He brushed back a copper curl from her face, looking troubled. “Can’t afford to lose my head in the moment and bite you.” He snorted, looking rueful. “Already a natural thing to want to do to you, anyhow—to give you a love bite.”

She knew his words should probably have given her pause. As the Slayer, they would have probably disgusted her—she wasn’t food, she was the being keeping everyone else from turning into it—and getting marked by a vampire was a sign of failure. Even letting Angel bite her had carried a sting of shame, after the fact, the knowledge that she’d almost been drained for her rashness permanently imprinted on her skin.

But the truth was, after everything, the idea of it now left her entirely unfazed. Spike didn’t kill his meal tickets anymore, so the worst thing that would happen would be some blood loss. And it wasn’t like she had to be up ready to save the world the next day.

“If you bite me, you bite me,” she said softly.

Spike jerked in her arms, eyes wide. “What?”

Buffy shrugged. “I’m dating you, a  _vampire_ , Spike. I’m not going to ask you to bite me, but if it happens, then it happens.”

Spike gave her a look that clearly said they had landed in the middle of another ‘not sure this girl is Buffy’ situation. “That’s a dangerous thing to allow, pet,” he said slowly.

“You know me, always living on the edge.”

She got a pointed, narrow glare in return. “I do know. That’s what worries me.”

“Well, worry about it tomorrow,” she said with a yawn. She sat up and fought with the rumpled covers for a minute before finally getting them pulled up over both their bodies. “Mom made up the spare room for you, just so you know."

There was a long pause. “Will she throw a fit if I’m not there in the morning?”

Buffy turned her head to meet his guarded gaze, the vulnerable notes in his question telling her what he was really asking.  _Do you want me there in the morning?_  Something broke slightly in her chest. God, so many times she’d woken up alone, as Buffy Summers by circumstance and now by choice. She wrapped herself against him again, fingers curled possessively around his waist. “Think she’s probably figured out her daughter is having sex by now.”

Another pause. “And if she hasn’t, luv?”

Buffy gave him a wry smile. “Then I guess she’ll figure it out in the morning.”

Spike let loose a sharp bark of laughter and pressed a soft kiss to her temple before bending his head so that his nose was nestled in her hair. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“Inviting me in.”

She giggled slightly. “I should be thanking  _you_. You made a teenage dream come true tonight.”

She felt him smile against her hair. “Did I live up to the hype?”

“Mmm. If by ‘lived up to’ you mean, ‘blew completely out of the water,’ then yes.”

He chuckled softly. “Appreciate the rave review, but hope you don’t mind if I keep trying to improve.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a work ethic," Buffy said teasingly, closing her eyes as she buried her head against his shoulder. "Gainful employment’s really leaving its mark on you.”

“Always had work ethic where it counted, pet.”

“For sex?”

“For love,” Spike corrected, nuzzling her hair.

A smile found its way to her lips. “For love,” she agreed.


	11. Lovers’ History, An Introspective

At first, Buffy thought she was just having a really nice naughty dream. It happened sometimes. She’d wake with the insides of her thighs wet and her hand a bit sticky and realize she’d been getting herself off in her sleep with some shadowy dream guy.

But, ohhhh, this was definitely not a dream. Her eyes blinked open as a finger brushed across her clit, a tongue already lapping slowly at her folds. Her voice left her in a sleepy whimper.

“There she is.” Spike was grinning lazily from between her thighs, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously in the near dark.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding about the whole ‘living between my legs’ thing,” she murmured, shifting her hips to give him better access.

“Can’t imagine a place I’d like more,” he agreed, giving her another lazy swipe that sent her shivering. He paused and licked his lips in a way that had to be illegal in at least seven states. “You taste even better now.”

“Now?”

“Right. With all the flavors of you and me down there, and the salt from your nice girly sweat.”

Her... oh  _god_. Buffy’s cheeks burned and she immediately tried to snap her legs shut.

Spike caught her easily mid-movement, clucking disapproval as he held her thighs open. “Hey now.”

Buffy stared down at him, still squirming. “You just told me that I’m in desperate need of a shower!”

Spike raised a brow. “And what part of ‘you’re delicious this way’ did you not get from my statement?”

“That in no way sounds  _delicious_.”

“Believe I’ll be the judge of that, pet. Seeing as I’m the one down here and all.” His eyes darkened. “Unless you want to do a bit of taste testing yourself.”

Her eyes widened. “Unless I… what?”

A positively devilish grin spread across Spike’s face. She felt one of his fingers plunge inside her, and she fell back against her pillow with a soft moan. But then, to her great frustration, it withdrew a moment later. She lifted her head with a frown to find Spike sliding up her body, extending a glistening index finger. His gaze was intent and predatory.

“A taste,” he purred.

Buffy stared at him. “Uh, no.”

He chuckled lowly. “You cute little prude.”

“I am not a prude!”

“No?” Spike tucked his tongue behind his teeth, smirking. “Prove it.”

She eyed his wet finger askance. “There’s not some other way to prove it?”

“Never tasted yourself properly before? Not even off some pathetic tosser’s cock after a shag?”

She blushed. “No. The… cock tasting has always happened before the being-in-me part. And—for this body—I've only been with human guys that I didn’t really know, so the 'before' part has even been kind of limited."

Spike looked almost laughably baffled at that. “Not sure I follow.”

“Diseases. And condoms. The lube stuff in condoms tastes gross.”

“Ah.” He grinned. “Appears my tight little vampire bod has the advantage, then.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

“Of course it is.”

He winked at her. “But back to the tasting bit…” Her face must’ve shown her continued icked-out feelings, because a puzzled line drew down Spike’s face. “What’s so frightening about your own juices, pet?” He let a hand wander down to grip his bobbing erection. “The idea of my come trouble you?”

“Well, no.” Buffy bit her bottom lip. “It’s just…” But there was no real good way to explain how dirty and taboo purposefully tasting herself seemed. “It seems kind of narcissistic,” she managed finally.

That earned her a raised brow. “Well, I can attest to you being addictive tasting, luv, but I think you’ve got pleasure and self-absorption all sorts of confused.”

She shrugged, regarding his still-extended finger with uneasy consideration.

“There’s nothing bad or wrong in sex,” Spike added softly, following her gaze, “so long as all the participants are happy.” He paused. “Or not, depending on your fancy. Point is, anything you ever want to try, I’m likely to be game.”

That, admittedly, had possibilities. “Anything?”

“Very likely so.” He shifted slightly on his elbows and regarded her seriously. “There’s not much I haven’t done over the years, including plenty that would probably set you running from this bed.”

A double whammy of insecurity and challenge hit her with that statement. She knew Spike was incredibly experienced (duh), but getting it waved in front of her face was a little much. Still, a larger portion of her wanted to remind him exactly whom he was dealing with. She was a thrice-dead Slayer, damnit. Give her some time (and possibly a source of hard alcohol) and then they’d find out exactly who was running from who. Eyes narrowed, she tugged Spike’s offered hand forward and wrapped her tongue right around his index finger, to his sharp intake of breath.

Huh. It was salty and slightly tangy, but not bad. Not exactly her thing, but not unpleasant.

She made to release Spike’s finger, but changed her mind immediately when she glanced up at his face. He was staring at her with such complete shock that it was probably a miracle his eyes weren’t literally bugging from their sockets. She grinned and experimentally swirled her tongue around the digit in her possession, watching as her vampire’s expression shifted to something entirely hungry. When she lightly nipped the tip, he growled low in his throat.

“You better watch what you’re starting, Slayer.”

She held his gaze stoically. “Watching-girl here. All with the watching.” Then she bit him harder.

“Bloody hell!” Spike’s eyes flashed amber and he jerked his finger from her possession with a low snarl.

Buffy grinned at him. “Whatcha going to do about it, vampire?”

She watched his nostrils flare as he regarded her from beneath hooded lids. “This,” he said flatly, tugging her up by the waist and turning her over so that her front was pressed against the comforter. His fingers were tight on her hips as he bent forward to whisper in her ear, his cock pressing heavily into the swell of her ass. “On your knees, Slayer.”

It hit her then. Spike was going to screw her from behind. In her childhood bed. After she’d sucked her own juices off his finger. Well, they’d definitely gone from zero to eight on the kink-o-meter in no time flat. Okay, maybe it wasn’t an eight on Spike’s kink-o-meter, but she really didn’t know what in the world was the basis for his, and she was pretty sure she wasn’t ready to ask.

She rose to her knees with a shiver of anticipation.

“You ever been fucked from behind, luv?” Spike asked in a low rumble, rubbing his cock very pointedly against her ass cheeks.

She glanced warily over her shoulder. “We are talking about  _from_  behind and not  _in_  behind, right?”

Spike paused, fixing her with a dark, devouring stare. “I was,” he said slowly, “but if you want to talk about ‘in behind,’ I’m all ears.”

“Erm.” She colored. “Not right now.”

Her answer brought a slow grin to his face. “Later, then.”

“Right.”

He resumed teasing her with his cock, dragging it down to brush against her folds. “So, about the other...”

“Sex from behind?” Buffy shrugged. “Sure.”

“This body or the other?”

She paused. Had she ever done the single-backed beast as Buffy Summers? Not with Angel, and for sure not with Parker. Riley, probably at some point, although she had a distinct memory of him always wanting to see her face.

“Can’t imagine Whitebread knew much other than good ol’ missionary,” Spike added, as if reading her thoughts.

“He was sweet,” Buffy said immediately, defensively. Then she winced. “Right up until the whole, you know, vamp ho thing.”

“Yeah,” Spike drawled, “he was just the king of wholesome.”

“Are you still bothered by him? Because that was, like, twenty years ago.”

There was a moment of silence, then Spike muttered, “A stake to the heart’s not an easy thing to forget.”

Buffy froze in horror, turning to face him. “A  _what_?”

Spike’s expression was cool, but the muscles in his neck were tense and corded. “Your former stabbed me with a plastic stake way back. After I showed you the suck house.” He searched her face. “He didn’t tell you?”

Buffy clenched her fists against the comforter. “No. He didn’t tell me.” She ran a questing hand over Spike’s chest, suddenly trembling as she laid fingers over his unbeating heart. “That’s… that’s sick. Why would Riley even  _have_  a plastic stake?”

Spike shrugged. “Most Nazis have a sadistic streak.” He paused, face darkening. “And I have more experience with that fact than I’d care to.”

Buffy huffed an angry breath. “Great, so the Buffy track record is even worse than I thought. I guess I can add ‘dated a sadist’ to my romantic history.”

To her surprise, Spike’s lips quirked up at that. “Luv, you’re talking to a bloke who spent a century with a woman barmier than a bedlam patient.”

Buffy laughed despite herself. “Boy, we really know how to pick ‘em, don’t we?”

Spike smiled softly at her, brushing a hand down her cheek. “Well, third time’s the charm, in my case.”

“Drusilla, Harmony, me?”

Spike’s nose wrinkled and he reared back slightly. “Harm? Oh, bloody hell, no! Chit was barely more than a bedwarmer.”

Buffy fought back a smile. “That’s not very nice.” The humor faded as she realized the implication of his words. “So there’s someone I don’t know about from the last twenty years? Someone you cared about?”

Spike lifted a brow. “Jealous, are you?”

“One of my less sparkling traits.”

He smiled and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “Love that you get all green for me.”

When she just looked away, discomfited, he apparently took pity on her. “There’s not an inch of room in my heart for anyone other than you, Buffy. Hasn’t been since before Glory. Hell, it’s the reason I lost Dru in the first place—you started pushing her out.”

She looked back at him, puzzled. “Okay, if it’s not after Drusilla, then who…”

Spike looked unexpectedly bashful at that. “Was a man once, you know,” he muttered.

Her eyes widened as realization crashed down. “Oh god. I never even thought… Did you have a wife, before?”

That earned her a derisive snort. “No, pet, can’t say I did. Hadn’t even gotten my dick wet before Dru found me.”

Well, there was a revelation. Spike had died a virgin?

“Respectable folks didn’t have relations before marriage,” he said tightly, seeing her look.

“And you were respectable?” Buffy looked at him narrowly. “Somehow, I have the funny feeling you didn’t tell the truth about you back in Sunnydale.”

His lips twitched. “Didn’t lie, just didn’t tell you much.”

“Uh huh… Why do I suspect this has some connection to your Latin-speaking and penchant for poetry?”

Spike growled slightly at her. “Because you’re too damn nosy.”

“One of my more sparkling traits,” she agreed with a grin. “And if you’d stop being avoid-o guy, I wouldn’t have to be so nosy.”

He chuckled, giving her nose a quick peck. “Fell head over heels for a stone cold society bitch who wouldn’t give me the time of day, alright?” He paused. “Seem to have a tendency for that.”

“That?”

“Falling for bitches.”

Buffy smacked his chest half-heartedly. “Jerk.” She paused. “Kind of not wrong, though.”

Spike caught her hand and kissed the palm, rumbling a laugh. “What can I say, I’m a glutton for punishment.” He shifted onto his knees, pulling her with him as he sank back cross-legged, her chest tight against his own.

“You say that as if you don’t enjoy it,” Buffy said wryly, wrapping her arms around his neck and sliding her legs over his hips to wrap around his waist, leaving her firmly seated in his lap in an intimate, naked embrace.

Spike gave her a smoldering look as his fingers traced slowly down her body. “Used to have lots of fantasies featuring you with just that kind of thing.”

Her heartrate kicked up a notch. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Something like where you’d knock down the door of my crypt, maybe rough me up a little, and then demand I pleasure you until kingdom come.”

“On threat of dusting, I assume,” Buffy said in amusement.

“Of course.”

“You have some serious domination issues.”

“Wouldn’t call them ‘issues’, per se, pet.”

She gasped as she felt the head of his cock brush against her admittedly wet folds. “Thought you wanted to do it from behind.”

“Plans change,” he murmured, dipping his head to suck at her very conveniently placed breasts. “And there’s always later.” He shifted his mouth to press teasing kisses down her neck, his fingers tweaking her nipples into hard, sensitive points. “I have every intention of having you six ways from Sunday before the week is out.”

“Ahh…kay,” Buffy managed breathlessly, arching her back against his ministrations as her fingers tightened in his hair.

Spike chuckled, lifting her hips slightly so she could reposition herself. “Take me in, kitten.”

“Mhmm.” She licked her lips, sinking down onto his waiting cock with agonizing slowness as his hands guided her, firmly cupping her ass.

“Feel so good,” he murmured, resting his forehead against her shoulder as she lifted herself up again. His hips followed her motion, sending them into a deep, rolling rhythm.

She was incredibly sure no man had ever filled her the way Spike did. And not just because he  _filled_  her, but because every inch of him seemed to work toward her pleasure, his cock tilting and sliding in just the right way to ensure he was placing pressure on her clit as his fingers kneaded all the electrifying nerves in her ass. When said fingers wandered dangerously close to an  _in behind_  scene, Buffy startled, sucking in a breath.

“Hey.”

Spike grinned devilishly, leaning forward so that his breath was tickling her ear. “Trust me?”

Anxiety battled embarrassment in revealing yet more evidence of her apparently prudish existence. “No one’s ever… been there," she provided hesitantly. Great, now her ass sounded like a space expedition.  _Go where no man has gone before!_

She watched Spike’s eyes darken as she slowly rose and fell on his cock. “Oh, sweetheart,” he rasped, “it’s the day for new experiences then.” He leaned toward her, tongue darting out to bestow a quick, erotic lash against her lips. “ _Trust_  me.”

She swallowed heavily. Well, she was in her 40’s, technically speaking. Anal play was probably way overdue. And, apparently, it was going to happen in her childhood bed. Okay, this was officially a ten situation on the Buffy kink-o-meter. She had the funny feeling she was going to have to quickly revise her numbering standards.

And she found herself surprisingly fine with that. She had the sex kitten voice these days, she might as well turn full-fledged, in a non-vampirey kind of way.

… Or maybe it  _was_  in a vampirey kind of way, considering that she was currently impaling herself on one’s cock. Okay, that was way more than enough thinking.

“I trust you.”

“You’re going to love it,” Spike promised huskily, bodily encouraging her to even out her somewhat faltering rhythm, as every thrust of his cock sent small splinters of warm pleasure into her lower belly. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she barely noticed when Spike pulled one of his hands away from her ass. She did notice when it came back again, and when he left it to rest right between her cheeks, several fingers now feeling moist. For a long moment, he just left it there, letting her drive to a heated frenzy in his lap, and suckling her breasts until she mewled and opened her eyes.

“Spike…”

“I know, luv."

One his fingers very gently pressed against the starred bud of her rear, feeling odd and invasive, but also strangely and terribly exciting.

“Relax,” Spike told her softly, watching her with an intent gaze. “Let me in.”

“I don’t…”

He seemed to realize her uncertainty, which was mainly a question of how in the world to relax that part of her body when he was doing  _that_. Thank god, he took the direct kind of solution and simply captured her mouth in a fierce, biting kiss. She moaned, fingers clenching in his hair with what had to be painful force, as he devoured her tongue with his own, leaving her panting and gasping, and entirely unwilling to pull away. Who needed oxygen, anyway?

When she finally had to pause for breath despite herself, she realized Spike’s finger had finished its journey into her. And—oh god—he was doing some kind of wiggling thing with it that was setting her already smoldering body ablaze.

“Oh-h,” she managed, her breath stuttering as she tried to keep up her even thrusting rhythm.

A slow grin crossed Spike’s face. “Good, yeah?”

“Weird,” she said promptly. “But, yeah, good.”

“And it’s going to get better.”

Before she knew it, he was shifting his hips and returning her gentle thrusts with hard, fierce ones of his own, making the pressure against her clit double, and sending her clenching down with a pleasured cry as her orgasm built up with thunderous speed. When she tipped over the edge, she realized she was pulsing against his finger as well as his cock, the dual sensation leaving her trembling and rigid as waves of pleasured release assaulted her.

But Spike didn’t let up. He growled and continued thrusting up into her quivering body, sending her into another wave of small orgasms. His mouth was all over her, nipping at her breasts and neck and mouth with a kind of single-minded ferocity that she knew was employed to stave off his fangs. She let her hands untangle from his hair and slid them down to pinch his nipples. He groaned before driving up into her with a snarl, and she felt his own orgasm shudder through him. He gave her neck a soft, open-mouthed kiss and slowly removed his finger from her rear.

“Wow,” Buffy breathed, laying her head on Spike’s shoulder with an exhausted breath.

“Yeah,” was his panted agreement.

“That was…”

She could practically hear Spike’s smirk. “Better?”

“Uh huh.”

He laid a possessive kiss against her jaw. “Just wait until next time, when I put my cock in there.”

Buffy lifted her head to eye him woozily. “Slow down there, Romeo. Let’s work our way up, okay?”

Spike waggled his brows with impish humor. “What? You wanna put it to me first? Can’t say I wouldn’t love a good rogering from you.”

That took a minute to decipher, but—when it happened—Buffy knew her face was turning red again. “You… you want me to screw you in the ass sometime?”

He surveyed her with steady amusement. “If you’re ever up for it. God, you’d look so pretty with a strap-on. Get you one in black leather, even.”

Buffy just stared at him, swallowing as she felt her pussy clench in sudden arousal at the mental image of that. Oh, geez, no wonder she and college boys hadn’t gotten along super well. She was a closet sex freak. It was probably a good thing she was dating a vampire. Well, one that wasn’t going to lose his soul at the first sign of a happy.

“Maybe sometime,” she said softly, unable to look at him.

Spike’s indrawn breath pulled her eyes up and she found him looking at her shock and awe and unbridled lust. “Fuck,” he growled. “I love you.” He made like he wanted to say more, but the distant sound of the front door opening and multiple voices made them both startle. “What is that?”

Buffy listened intently to the garbled rise and fall of faint voices, trying to pick out familiar tones. “Um, probably grandma Mary and grandpa Roger. They always get here early so grandma can help get the food started.” When Spike just blinked at her, she added, “It’s Thanksgiving today, remember? The whole reason we’re in Connecticut?”

“Oh, hell.”

Buffy giggled at his disconcerted expression. “It’s not Sunnydale. Extended family can and do actually come to visit without fear of apocalypse.”

“Bloody overrated amenity,” Spike said sourly. He sighed. “Guess that means playtime’s over.”

“I think so,” Buffy reluctantly agreed. “My bedroom noise is a little more obvious from the kitchen. And, ugh, our bags are still out in your car.”

Spike shrugged. “That’s alright, luv. I need to grab some nosh from the boot, anyhow. I’ll steal out while you catch a rinse.”

“Sometimes you have more British-isms than English in your sentences, you know that?”

Spike gave her a hard look. “First of all,  _all_ of that was in English, you daft chit. Just some in the Queen’s proper. And second, I don’t think you want to be calling me out on my command of the English language when you’ve barely stopped with the Valley girl lingo.”

“Yeah, yeah. Believe me, Giles harped on that long before you were around.” The thought of her Watcher left her momentarily quiet. According to Spike, he was still alive, but mostly a hermit since her most recent death. There was no doubt to either of them that he probably blamed himself for her death in the same way the others did. Of course, he had sent her off by herself to face Sweet, in some weird, misguided attempt to yank her out of her depression, or whatever he’d thought was going on. She didn’t imagine the news of her being in heaven had gone over any better for him than it had for the others. At least he’d apparently taken Willow in hand over it, before the witch did something even stupider than resurrect her friend and potentially trap her in an eternal reincarnation loop.

Spike’s hand brushed the small of her back, breaking her from her thoughts. “Lost you for a minute there,” he noted softly.

“Sorry. Just got sucked into the past.”

“Happens.” Spike pressed a kiss to her collarbone. “Now, get off me and shower, so I can go eat.” He grimaced. “And then we’ll make it through your family’s Thanksgiving.”

Buffy laughed, untangling herself from his embrace and somehow convincing her shaky legs to stand. “Don’t look so glum. They’re nice people.”

Spike snorted. “I used to eat nice people.”

“I didn’t really need that reminder.”

“Just reminding you how much it means when I don’t haul off and chew on your Aunt Martha when she starts telling me about how I look like Billy Idol or some such.”

Buffy fought a smile and lost. “I don’t have an aunt Martha.”

“Don’t give a bloody fig,” Spike said with a mock-growl. “Trying to make a point here.”

“Okay. Point made. You’re a good boy for not eating my relatives.” Buffy paused a beat. “Although, in general, if you eat  _anyone_  that’s not me, you are so kicked out of the boyfriend gig.”

Spike frowned, the expression shifting to a grin as he caught the glint her eyes. “You little red-headed minx. Get your arse in the shower before I bite it.”

“Join me when you’re done sneaking out to the car?”

“Parents won’t care?”

“They have their own bathroom, and no one can see mine from this end of the hall.”

Spike rose, tugging on his jeans with astonishing speed. “Be there in two minutes.”


	12. Family Matters

For all his growling and grumbling, Spike took to the Gallagher family like a duck to water. Or like a charismatic vampire to a herd of captive family members.

Luckily, they’d apparently been discreet enough in their morning activities that they hadn’t scandalized the grandparents (the jury was still out on what exactly Lara and Paul had heard overnight, but Buffy took it as a good sign that her dad could look her in the eye and that her mom wasn’t threatening Spike’s life).

The biggest hitch in the day had come shortly after the whole family arrived. Uncle James had thrown open the living room curtains right in front of Spike, with a baffled, “It’s a beautiful day. Why are we sitting in the dark?”. Spike had instinctively flung himself across the room and behind the sofa, with Buffy crashing on top of him a second later, her only thought to shield the vampire before he started to smolder, as she screamed a terrified, “Shut the curtains!”. As it was, their act—even sans smoldering—was enough to throw the room into an astonished silence.

“Spike has a sun sensitivity,” Buffy provided awkwardly, carefully lifting herself off Spike’s tense form as Uncle James wordlessly closed the curtains.

“Medication side effect,” Spike added roughly, rising with a grace that belied the fact that he’d just done a swan dive behind the furniture.

It had been Grandma Mary who’d eventually broken the tension, giggling as she eyed Spike. “My goodness, young man, you’re quite athletic. But couldn’t you have done that with a bit less speed? You didn’t give this old woman enough time to admire.”

James gaped at her. “Mom!”

Grandma just shrugged, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “What? I’m old, not dead, James.”

Spike had smirked at that, turning on the full weight of his charm as he winked at Mary. “I’d oblige a repeat performance, luv, but I think my girl here might throw a fit.”

Buffy was pretty sure she was the only one who caught the slight hitch in his voice with ‘my girl.’

“Sorry, Grandma, one show per person,” Buffy added lightly, taking Spike’s hand in her own as he gave her a blinding smile.

Mary just laughed. “A shame.”

The day had gone mostly smoothly after that, although Grandpa Roger gave Spike some serious side-eye through most of the meal. When the last of the pie had been eaten, Grandpa apparently felt it was a good discussion time, and leaned in toward Spike with a stern, “You know, son, in my day, how a man dressed was a reflection on his character.”

Oh boy. Wait until he got a load of Spike’s duster. Buffy cleared her throat warningly (because god only knew what kind of retort might fly out of the vampire’s mouth with that gigantic opening), but Spike pointedly ignored her. Instead, he regarded Roger with an unconcerned gaze, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Suppose it’s a good thing I decided against the get-up with ruffles, then. Couldn’t have you thinking a poofter was dating your granddaughter.”

For a long moment, it seemed like Grandpa wasn’t really sure how to take that, although Buffy was pretty sure it was going to end up on the side of ‘bad.’ However, he eventually just gave a loud guffaw and smacked Spike’s shoulder companionably as he rose from his chair. “C’mon, smart ass. It’s cards time. Let’s see if your playing can keep up with your mouth.”

Spike grinned, real interest sparking in his gaze. “Cards, eh?”

“Euchre,” Buffy supplied dryly. “It’s sort of a Gallagher holiday tradition.”

“I’ve learned to hide the knives,” Lara said with a small smile. “Limits the bloodshed.”

“Mr. Smart Ass can be on my team this round,” Roger declared.

Spike leaned back in his chair, looking fully amused now. “My pleasure, pops.”

The only real snag on Buffy’s end came from her Aunt Kim, who pulled her aside with a strong grip on her elbow that Buffy had to consciously keep herself from breaking. “You know, honey, your parents are pretty understanding people, and you’re a good girl, but… don’t you think  _Spike’s_  a little old for you?” Her aunt's expression grew more pinched as she said his name, making it clear that it was a black mark in her book.

If she only knew.

“Spike is a great guy,” Buffy said evenly, battling even parts irritation and amusement. After overcoming mortal enemy status and a body switch, what was a measly decade of visible age difference? “And it’s…” Buffy’s voice trailed off as her gaze found Spike.

On break as euchre teams rotated, the vampire had apparently gotten roped into playing with Kim and James’s two little girls, and he was letting them messily repaint his nails some mix of bright pink and orange as they rambled on about tigers at the zoo. Spike, for his part, seemed to be taking the role of listener very seriously, and was gravely nodding and commenting in the appropriate places.

“And it’s really not what makes or breaks a relationship,” Buffy finished softly, watching as Emily ran a messy polish brush over Spike’s pinkie nail. Back in Sunnydale, she’d walked in on Dawn and Spike doing the same exact thing—painting their nails and talking—at least a half dozen times. How many times had they done that together since she’d been gone again?

Aunt Kim paused, also catching sight of the scene. Her expression softened. “He’s good with them.”

“Yeah. He is.” Buffy smiled. “And he’s good for me.”

When she looked back toward Spike, he was staring over at her with vulnerable surprise, his forgotten vamp hearing apparently in working order. Swallowing down a sudden wash of anxiety, she held Spike’s eyes and repeated firmly, “He’s good for me.”

When it came time to head back to Pittsburgh at the end of the night (with the truthful excuse that Spike had to work the next night), Lara gave them both tight hugs at they headed out of the door. “You two drive safe.”

“I’ll take good care of her, mum,” Spike said, with a firm solemnity.

“We know you will,” Paul agreed, shaking the vampire’s hand. Her dad’s brow was furrowed when he stepped back, but he didn’t say anything else.

“Call us when you get in,” Lara said softly, wrapping Buffy up in another hug.

“I will, mom. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Buffy.”

 

***

 

“You should tell them, luv.”

Buffy glanced over at Spike from the passenger seat. The vampire’s eyes were firmly trained on the road, but his fingers were tapping a low, tense rhythm against the steering wheel. “Tell who what now?”

“You should tell your folks. About who you are.”

“And why exactly should I do that?”

“Your parents aren’t stupid,” Spike told her bluntly. “They know something’s up. Could tell your dad knew something wasn’t exactly normal when he shook my hand.”

“Uh, hate to break it you, but even with a pulse I don’t think you’d qualify as ‘normal’.”

“I’m being serious here.”

“So am I.”

A low growl reverberated through the car. “Bloody infuriating bint. Your family deserves to know. What happens if some big nasty finds out what you are? Guarantee getting hold of a reincarnated Slayer would be a big thing to brag on in several circles. And it’s always family that gets the axe first in those situations.”

Buffy blinked at his unexpected vehemence, realization sinking in after a moment. “You like them.”

Spike shifted uncomfortably in his seat before mumbling, “You seem to attract good sorts for family.”

That, at least, was undeniable. “It’s why I don’t want to mess anything up,” Buffy whispered, twisting her hands in her lap.

One of Spike’s hands reached across to cover hers, cool and comforting. His thumb massaged the back of her knuckles. “Impossible.”

“Yeah, well, my ‘good sort’ of family sent me to the loony bin last time, so my confidence in that is pretty much non-existent.”

Spike’s hand froze, and there was a solid moment of silence with only the hum of the road for radio. Finally, he barked out a dangerous, “ _What?!_  Joyce sent you to a bloody  _asylum_?”

“It was mostly my dad,” Buffy admitted, “but mom didn’t stop him. After a couple weeks, I just lied and said I made up the whole Slayer and vampires existing thing, and then they took me home.”

Spike bit off a long string of incoherent curses before falling into a furious, fuming silence.

Buffy eyed him speculatively. “Got that all out of your system?”

“For the moment,” he growled. His eyes flicked over to hers briefly. “You know I’d never let that happen to you again, yeah?”

“I know. And I don’t think Lara and Paul would do that, but…”

“But it’ll still change what you lot have?”

“Exactly.”

“Not sure that can be helped, Slayer.”

Buffy sighed, curling up into the seat as a knot tightened uncomfortably in her chest. “I know. I just… I’m not ready yet.”

“Beasties won’t care what kind of ready you are, pet.”

Buffy swallowed and stared uneasily out the window, watching the dark highway fly by. “They never do.”

 

***

 

She must’ve fallen asleep at some point shortly after, because her next waking realization was that she was being carried up a set of stairs. She shifted groggily, earning herself an irritated, “Stop squirming or I’ll drop you on your cute little arse.”

Buffy smiled against Spike’s duster and obediently stopped moving. “My room key’s in my purse,” she mumbled.

“Good to know, pet, but won’t be needing that.”

Her eyes snapped open and she peered blearily around, realizing abruptly that she wasn’t in her dorm stairwell. Instead, they were climbing an old set of narrow wooden stairs in some kind of apartment building. “Where are we?”

“Heading up to my flat.” He glanced down at her, looking slightly unsure. “Hope that’s alright.”

Buffy pulled herself into full wakefulness with a curious frown. “Um. Yeah.”

“Sensing a ‘but’ there.”

“Just surprised we’re going  _up_  stairs. You know, where windows are.”

Spike rumbled a low chuckle that vibrated pleasantly against her body. “Got an interior flat. Cheap, too, I might add.”

“I can imagine.”

Spike set her down outside his door a minute later and fiddled with his keys. “It’s not much,” he said shyly.

“Spike, the last home I saw of yours was a crypt with junkyard furniture.”

“Point taken.” He unlocked it and swung the door open, motioning her inside. “Come in, Buffy.”

Spike’s apartment was small, but cozy, with dim lighting and rug-covered floors. Most of the living room was taken up by a beaten-up black leather couch and a massive flat screen TV. Buffy eyed the set-up with surprised amusement.

“You have an Xbox?”

Spike shrugged, sliding off his duster and tossing it across the back of the couch. “Bit’s little university chums played. Turns out it's bloody good entertainment.”

"Huh." Spike playing video games with a bunch of college age kids was definitely one mental image she never expected to have.

He prowled toward her, his blue eyes intent and dark. “The living room’s a bit of alright, but the bedroom’s the real posh part. What say we go see it, eh?”

Buffy lifted a brow, trying to look shocked. “Why, Mr. the Bloody, are you trying to seduce me?”

Spike snorted, but continued his approach, sliding his hands down around her waist as he purposefully ground his erection into her stomach. “Wasn’t thinking there’d be much  _trying_  about it, luv.” He bent his head down to press an open-mouthed kiss at the base of her throat. “Been torture not to touch you all day.”

Her breath caught as his hands slid slowly up her breastbone before swirling carelessly around her clothed nipples. As she watched his fingers, a sudden giggle rose up in her throat.

“Something amusing?”

Buffy plucked one of his hands from her and held it in front of him, palm facing away. “Just enjoying the paint job.”

Spike pursed his lips. “Ha bloody ha. That’s the thanks I get for keeping the rugrats entertained?”

“Well, you definitely scored points with Aunt Kim. And, hey, bonus: she didn’t mention anything remotely related to you and Billy Idol.”

“No, but the bint was a judgmental bitch if I’ve ever seen one. And believe me, pet, I’ve seen plenty.”

Buffy shrugged. “She meant well.” A small smile escaped. “But I did have to work really hard not to laugh in her face.”

“’Spected as much.” He brushed a lock of red hair behind her ear with a faux-stern look. “Now, are you going to come willingly to bed, kitten, or do I need to haul you over my shoulder?”

“And they say romance is dead.”

He smirked at her. “I believe I promised to shag you six ways from Sunday before week’s end. Way I see it, we’re running behind.”

“I’m surprised we made it back without stopping,” Buffy admitted.

“Not so much into the unconscious crowd, pet,” Spike said dryly. “Besides, you seemed to need the kip.”

“Well,  _someone_  kept me up most of last night.”

Spike looked at her innocently. “That right?” He got a wicked glint in his eye then, which was the only warning she had before he grabbed her by the waist and swung her up over his shoulder, to her squeal of surprise. “Suppose I’d better not let the wanker outdo me then.”

Buffy huffed in exasperation as Spike started taking long strides down the hall, her face uncomfortably buried against his back and her ass up in the air. “You do realize you’re going to pay for this crap later.”

She could practically hear Spike’s leer as he entered the bedroom. “God, luv, I hope so. In fact, I know just how–” His voice cut off as his cell phone started blaring. “Oh, bollocks.”

Spike set her down on the edge of his bed and tugged his cell phone from his back pocket, his expression turning tight with worry as he clicked the call. “Bit? Everything alright?”

Buffy froze.  _Dawnie?_

Spike must’ve seen her expression, because he quickly tapped the phone speaker and sat down beside her on the edge of the bed, his knee just touching hers. And oh god, there was her sister’s voice, just a hairsbreadth lower in timbre from age, but undeniably that of Dawn Summers.

“– is that always your first question? You really need to stop with the doom and gloom.”

Spike’s expression was soft as he watched Buffy stare helplessly at the phone in his lap. “Old habits die hard and all that rot.”

“No kidding.” There was a small bubbling laugh that had Buffy’s heart leaping up into her throat. “I still won't travel in May. It annoys the heck out of Bryan.” There was a small hum. “So where’re you at now?”

“Still in Pittsburgh, luv.”

“You’ve been there for a while.”

Spike sent his free hand out to rub a soothing circle on Buffy’s knee. “Yeah, well, thinking I might hunker down for a spell.”

“Really?” Dawn’s voice was incredulous. “In  _Pittsburgh_?”

“It’s a solid city, Niblet. Some nice hotspots and the like, and I’m getting on with the Watchers here.”

“Uh huh...” The disbelieving drawl was so familiar that Buffy found herself smiling. “Okay, seriously, what’s the real reason?”

Spike sighed gustily. “Bloody hell, can’t get anything past you.”

“Nope.” Dawn’s voice was smug. “Now tell me.”

Spike glanced over at Buffy hesitantly. “Uh, might’ve met a bird.”

There was a moment of silence followed by a very girlish squeal. “Oh my god, you got a girlfriend?! I mean, geez, finally. I’ve only been telling you for two freaking decades that you need to move on.”

Spike winced, very pointedly looking away from Buffy. “Right.”

“So tell me about her.”

Spike froze, and Buffy knew exactly what he was thinking: that saying  _she’s almost exactly like Buffy_  was probably not the way to go here.

“Smart as a whip,” he said after a minute, meeting Buffy’s eyes with a small, crooked smile. “Fiery redhead. Puts up with yours truly.”

There was an exasperated huff over the line. “Spike, you deserve better than someone who ‘puts up with' you.”

Buffy blinked at Dawn’s frustrated tone. For all that Spike had apparently protected the youngest Summers, it looked like Dawn was just as protective of him. And not, Buffy admitted guiltily, without reason. Spike had put up with a lot from Buffy Summers in the scant hope of a crumb, and put up with likely far worse from Drusilla over a century.

Spike just chuckled. “Was only a figure of speech, ducks.”

“It better have been.” There was a pause. “So what is she? Species-wise, I mean?”

“Human.”

“Seriously? Does she know about stuff?”

Spike smiled tolerantly at the phone. “Of course she knows. What  _and_  who I am.”

“And she didn’t run away? She’s not like a weird fan girl, is she?”

 _Fan girl?_  Spike had fan girls? Huh. That sort of explained the website, at least. She was definitely going to have to grill him about that later.

“Bloody hell, Bit, didn’t realize getting a lady was going to start the Spanish Inquisition.” He shook his head. “And no, she’s not a sodding fan girl.”

“Sorry.” Dawn didn’t sound sorry at all. “Well, you should bring her the next time you visit.” Buffy could almost hear her sister’s glare over the phone. “And it had better be soon. I haven’t seen you in almost four months.”

“I know, pet.” He searched Buffy’s face cautiously. “I can see when my lady’s free.”

“This lady have a name?”

“Planning to stalk her on the internet are you, Bit?”

“Duh.”

Spike looked at Buffy questioningly; she shrugged. “Her name’s Meg.”

“Last name?”

“Not telling. You’ll just have to meet her the old-fashioned way.”

“Ugh, you are a total buzzkill.”

“Well, it’s the best I’ve got, seeing as I haven’t been able to scare you in years,” Spike said dryly.

Dawn snorted. “You never scared me.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

There was a muffled disturbance over the line, followed by snatches of Dawn’s voice saying, “No, Maddy, not that–” and “Go ask your dad, I'm busy talking to Uncle Spike right–”

After a minute, Dawn sighed and said more clearly, “Sorry, Spike, I have to go.”

“It's fine, pet.”

“I know, but… Well, anyway, I just wanted to call. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Bit.”

Buffy let go a shuddering breath when the call ended, gaze glued on the phone.

“Luv?”

She looked up with a wavering smile, meeting Spike’s concerned gaze.

“Okay there?"

She nodded, trying to quell the storm of emotions in her chest. “Yeah. It’s just… it’s real, you know? She’s really there.”

“And misses you to this day,” Spike added, his gaze serious.

Buffy frowned, narrowing her eyes. “You think I should tell her I’m around.”

“Same way I think you should tell your new family, yeah.”

Panic and pain rose. “No. It's not the same.” She swallowed roughly. “Buffy Summers is dead, Spike. I’m not going to keep barging in and out of Dawn’s life and turning it upside down.”

Spike sighed. “You make it sound like there’s summat wrong with that.” His lips curved into a rueful smile. “Best bloody things that’ve happened to me in the last two decades were the times you turned my life upside down and inside out by showing up from the dead.”

Buffy glanced down at the cell phone still in his lap. “I’ll think about it, alright?”

“Alright.”


	13. Unspoken Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a couple nods to Darkling. Because I can. And because the contrast is fun.

After Thanksgiving, life settled into a new routine. Instead of heading out to look for Spike after nightfall, Buffy started heading straight to the pick-up lane outside the student center, where there was always a certain bleached blond vampire waiting for her, smoking and leaning casually against the hood of a very old, very familiar black car. It was always the same greeting; he’d look up, his eyes would brighten and his mouth would curve into a small smile, he’d flick away his cigarette, growl out a husky “Hello, cutie,” then tug the passenger side door open and gallantly wait for her to get in.

One night just before fall finals, a girl from her dorm floor (Alexis? Alexia?) saw Spike’s act and purred out an appreciative, “Wow, that guy is yummy. Is he yours?”

Spike heard, of course, and his smile turned into a dirty grin as he tucked his fingers into his belt loops. “All hers, pet.”

Alex-somebody pouted prettily with her overly made-up lips, and turned her gaze momentarily Buffy’s way. “Damn. What would you say to sharing?”

A wave of possessive jealousy rose so fast and hard that Buffy would’ve probably punched the other girl straight in the face if not for Spike tugging her against him and nuzzling her neck in a way that completely railroaded her furious brain.

“Not a chance,” Spike replied for her, his gaze dark and patronizing as he looked over Buffy’s shoulder. “Now toddle off.”

When they were safely ensconced in Spike’s car, Buffy giggled madly, throwing her head back against the seat. “Did you see her face when you told her to ‘toddle off’? You’d think you just spit in her five-dollar coffee.” Her eyes narrowed as shades of Faith came back to haunt her. “The man-stealing ho. You should’ve let me punch her.”

Spike laughed lowly as he shifted the car into drive and steered out of campus. “As much as I’d enjoy watching that bit of rough and tumble, I wager it’d be rather one-sided. Poor girl didn’t deserve a Slayer’s wrath just for enjoying my goods.”

“Says you.” Buffy pursed her lips. “And I’m not the Slayer. It wouldn’t have been that unfair.”

Spike lifted a brow. “Right. Because ex-Slayer with several black belts is loads better.”

“Don’t want it to be loads better,” she mumbled, then paused as another thought occurred. “Was she your type?”

Spike shot her a quizzical look. “Type?”

“That you… ate.”  _Had sex with._

He stiffened. “Wasn’t picky,” he said shortly, before changing the subject with a tight, “Now where to?”

Buffy tilted her head in thought. They’d been spending about half their nights at the Watchers’ dojo, since Spike had to be there anyway, but he had the night off, and she’d about had her fill of perky Potentials who seemed to think getting Called was the best thing since sliced bread.

“Patrol, then dinner, then your place?”

“Sounds grand, kitten.” He glanced at her backpack thrown behind the seat. “Got your homework?”

“Yep.”

“Good.”

Buffy shook her head with a small smile. Almost unbelievably, Spike was a stickler about making sure she finished her classwork. And he was an excellent motivator. He firmly refused to touch her until she was done with work for the night, which had led to some pretty record-breaking paper writing stints, and some just as record-breaking couch sessions. And bed sessions. And floor sessions. And pretty-much-everywhere-else-in-his-apartment sessions.

“The homework thing, is that from taking care of Dawnie?”

Spike glanced over at her, shrugging. “All her little university mates were prattling on about Marx as if that dead git was god’s gift. Didn’t want her getting in on that nonsense.”

Buffy lifted a brow. “Let me get this straight: you made sure Dawn did her homework so she wouldn’t become the standard, overly-idealistic college kid?”

“Bloody right I did.”

The blatant pride in his voice astounded her. William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers, was proud that he’d taught the Slayer’s little sister how to successfully navigate an education. “The last twenty years have really tamed you,” she said, with heavy amusement.

“Oi!” Spike’s glanced at her with deep offense. “No need to be a bitch. I was trying to do right by her.” He paused, his volume lowering. “And you.”

Buffy’s mouth quirked into a wry smile. “Again with the tamed.”

A thunderous growl sounded in the car. “I’ll show you fucking  _tamed_  when we get back to the flat.”

The promise in his voice sent a pleasant, anticipatory shiver up her spine. So far—despite his initial pushing—Spike had been letting her take the lead in their sexual encounters, born from some mix of what she suspected was not wanting to accidentally push past her human limits (hours of sex was fun, but left her insanely sore), and wanting to see exactly how adventurous she might become on her own. It didn’t stop him from whispering dirty suggestions in her ear as they screwed, however. Which meant she now knew exactly how much he liked the thought of her wearing a red leather collar, and the idea of covering her in a myriad of food items and then licking her from head to toe. He’d also been testing out a dozen suspiciously poetic, adjective-laden terms for her hair, and seemed to currently favor _molten waves_  and  _firebrand curls_. She had liked the last one best, up until he started murmuring it as he ate her out, the most shit-eating grin possible plastered on his face and his eyes very clearly  _not_ focused on the hair on her head. Now when he said it in public, she could feel her face automatically flush crimson as he smirked knowingly. Damn vampire.

They pulled into street parking on the east side of Sheraden, where the street lights were mostly non-functioning and the mortality rate was accordingly high. It was a street she’d almost died on twice before meeting Spike, although she’d wisely kept from mentioning that fact.

But, even without that tidbit of knowledge, Spike still not-so-subtly watched her like a hawk during skirmishes and then reamed her if she did anything even remotely more life-threatening than usual.

The most recent time he’d berated her, she’d gotten so irritated that she hauled off and slugged him hard in the nose. They’d both frozen there in the alley, eyes locked, as a small stream of blood dripped from Spike’s nose.

Out of a million unsaid but implicitly changed things between them, one of the most major had been that  _Buffy doesn’t communicate anger by hitting Spike._  He couldn’t hit her back—really hit her—without inflicting substantial damage, which put them in a weird power gap that they’d silently chosen to avoid. Until that moment.

Terrible realization welled in her throat. “Spike… I didn’t mean…”

“Save it,” he’d said coldly, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve and turning abruptly toward the car. “Let’s get you back.”

He’d dropped her off at her dorm without another word between them, and then hadn’t contacted her for two days. As the second night passed by without word, a deep dread that Spike was gone for good blossomed with horrible surety. Buffy nearly dropped her phone in her hurry to grab it after that thought, and frantically texted Spike a meek,  _I’m so sorry._  He didn’t reply, but he did show up outside her door the next night, looking angry and unforgiving. Her stomach had dropped at the sight. Had he come just to say goodbye? Had he realized she wasn’t enough Slayer in the places it mattered and too much of one in the places that should’ve been abandoned?

“Spike…”

“No,” he interrupted harshly, arms spread, his grip bruising the doorframe. “You just shut your gob, because I’m only going to say this once, you hear me?”

Mutely, she nodded, wrapping her arms around her waist in a protective shield as she waited for the deathblow of their many-times-altered relationship. Ironically, even death hadn’t been enough to kill it, but something as stupid and thoughtless as a punch to the nose had been.

Spike held her teary gaze against his narrow one and said in a clipped tone, “I want to live in a world that has you in it.”

Buffy blinked, her dread scattering in confusion.  _Wait… Huh?_

“And if that means being an absolute bastard about you taking risks,” he continued, “then that’s just the way it is. You’re not the active Slayer, Buffy. Your only responsibility is to  _stay alive_. And I mean to keep you that way.”

All the built-up tension drained from her shoulders with a shuddering exhalation. “Oh,” she managed weakly. “So I guess the Buffy Summers curse isn’t actually continuing onto body number two. Or not yet, anyway.”

Spike frowned. “Curse?” Then his mouth parted in understanding and he let his arms fall away from the door with a sigh. “Oh, Buffy... There’s not a damn thing you could do to make me leave. I told you that.” A rueful smile curved his lips as he reached out to brush her cheek. “About went mental just staying away for the last two nights.”

“Me, too.” Not having Spike around was suddenly an intolerable state, and she wasn’t sure when it had happened, but there was denying that it had. “Can you not do that again, please?”

He sighed and looked down at his boots. “I was livid with you,” he admitted. “Didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I know.” She swallowed. “I promise not to angry punch you again.”

A smile graced his face at that. “Don’t make stupid promises, Slayer.” He nodded toward her room. “May I come in?”

“Actually, I’d rather come with you. If that’s okay.”

Spike stepped over the threshold and kissed her soundly, hands framing her face. “More than okay.” He smirked at her. “And I can guarantee you’ll come with me plenty tonight. We have some hours to make up for.”

That had been a week ago, and they’d been together every night since, with tonight so far following the same trend.

Buffy stepped out of the Desoto, tucking her stakes into her coat pocket from their storage place in the car door.

“All set, pet?”

At her nod, Spike strode over and took his new and apparently now semi-permanent place at her right side. It felt weird, after years of having him on her left, but her own now left-handedness made some shifting necessary. After their first coordinated fight against a pack of roaming vamps, which ended up all kinds of awkward and clumsy, Spike had turned to her with his face all scrunched up in a baffled frown.

“What in the world were you doing…” Then some epiphany seemed to set in, followed by a low chuckle. “God, thought something was off at the Watchers’ place. Buffy, luv… are you left-handed now?”

She sighed, wiggling the hand in question. “Yeah. I guess we’re not going to be good together like we used to be, are we?”

But Spike just laughed and shifted to her right side. “Pet, I’ve been alive for a century and a half. You really think I haven’t learned how to switch hands?”

And that had been that.

“I never did ask,” Buffy said conversationally as they strolled along tonight, “about why all the demons in this neighborhood seem pretty wary of you. Even Mr. Big Yellow and Girl-Eating who had me in the bar booked it when you came on the scene.”

Spike gave her an amused, sideways look. “Of course he did, Slayer.”

“Of course? Where’s the ‘of course’? I don’t remember that being nearly as much of a thing in Sunnydale.”

He grimaced. “Was a bit distracted hunting down a cure for Dru. Didn’t spend much time establishing my dominance after setting up the Annoying One for a bit of sunbathing.” He raised a brow. “And Sunnyhell already had a Big Bad for the demon community to fear. Yours truly was only ever going to be second fiddle.”

“Huh? Who?”

He gave her a ‘you’re an idiot’ look. “You, pet. You were the bogeyman the bad little monsters saw at night.”

Buffy snorted. “That was me. All with the bogey.” Still, a proud, nostalgic smile blossomed. “I really did have most of them running, didn’t I?”

He laughed. “Don’t go fishing, luv. You know you were brilliant. Christ, it wasn’t even the bloody Hell Bitch who took you down. Just your own good nature not wanting to let the world burn, or have little sis do the deed.” His smile faded abruptly at the memory.

Luckily, a pack of fledges chose that moment to round the corner in their direction, and Spike’s attention snapped over, a feral grin widening his features as he straightened to his full height.

“You really want to know why they’re all afraid of me, pet?”

Buffy drew a stake from her waistband. “Why?”

Spike darted forward as the fledges warily regarded the master vampire and his probable snack, likely trying to decide if they could easily interrupt. “Because,” he growled, plunging a stake into the first of the confused fledges, “they’re smart.”

The remaining half dozen fledglings went from dumbstruck to pissed off in an instant, threatening to swamp Spike under as he whirled out of reach, grinning from newly ambered eyes and a ridged face.

Buffy planted a solid fist against one of the meatier fledgling’s throats, ducking the following enraged punch. They didn’t have Spike’s power, but broken bones were still a strong possibility if she didn’t deflect any of the force (trying to explain away her patrol-induced broken arm at sixteen had been seriously unpleasant). She side-stepped another blow and plunged her stake into an exposed back, dust flying under her fingers. “These guys aren’t looking too high on the intelligence meter.”

Spike gave a kind of snarling laugh as he ripped off another fledge’s head, raining dust to the ground. “Useless gits, then.”

“Sorry, it looks like you didn’t make the guest list,” Buffy chirped at the remaining three, spinning forward with a high front flip and delivering an unforgiving kick to a fledge’s chest.

When the fledglings were all decorative dust, Spike slid back into his human mein with an approving look. “Didn’t hardly get touched that time.”

Buffy shrugged, wincing as she caught sight of the nasty bruise forming across Spike’s cheek. “Only because you took the brunt.”

“I can take it, luv,” he said sternly. He brushed the mark with a complete lack of concern. “It’ll be gone in an hour.” There was a hesitation. “A day at most.”

Buffy winced again. It was obvious (unspoken thing number 3,082) that Spike wasn’t eating nearly as well as he had been when she’d first found him. The steep lines of his cheekbones were more pronounced now, and his skin was verging on early-chipped-era pale.

“If you need to… get something to eat, I can…” Buffy paused. She could wait in the car while he snacked on someone? Take the bus to his apartment and wait there?

Spike’s mouth drew a flat line at her uncomfortable expression. “I’m fine.” He strode toward the car. “C’mon, we’ll get some delivery at my flat.”

Buffy pursed her lips as she followed. “That only feeds me, not you.”

He didn’t answer until they were both back in the car, heading toward his apartment. “I’ll be fine,” he repeated more gently, though no more convincingly.

Stupid stubborn vampire. “Spike, you need to eat. I can see red around your eyes.”

He didn’t reply, and Buffy regarded him with a narrow frown, trying to puzzle out what was going on in his head. “Do you… Are you having trouble finding people?” Come to think of it, she wasn’t actually sure who or how Spike was even hunting now sans seduction. The sexual pick-up routine seemed to be the default  _modus operandi_  for most vamps. Guilt twisted in her stomach. Was she starving him with her demands?

Spike glanced briefly toward her and away, a clear signal of her question’s validity, even though he didn’t say it. “I’m just trying to suss out a way to do it without hurting anyone.” At her confused frown, he elaborated, “Sticking to blokes. Short of punching them mostly unconscious, haven’t found a great way of keeping them quiet.” He grimaced. “Could use Dru’s thrall about now.”

Part of that statement caught her. “You care about not hurting them?”

Spike gripped the steering wheel more tightly. “Not a whit. But I know you do.”

Well, there was an easy solution. Buffy straightened her shoulders. “Punch them.”

Spike turned to her briefly, wide-eyed. “What?”

“Punch. Them.” To her surprise, his face darkened, and she huffed in confusion. “Okay, not really the response I was expecting there…”

Spike took a deep breath, then said abruptly, “Been thinking a lot about the soul rot this last bit of years.”

Buffy stared at him. “Um. Is it me, or did we just take a nice detour out into left field?”

He shrugged stiffly.

When silence reigned between them, Buffy bit her lip in confusion. “Okay. The soul thing. What about it?”

“What it means. Why Peaches was so lit under the arse for destiny and saving puppies and all that bollocks.” His fingers twitched on the steering wheel, and she knew he was wishing he had a cigarette. “Thing is, I don’t give a flying fuck about the world, Buffy.”

“That’s not true.”

He raised a brow and leveled her with a serious look. “Yes. It is.” She tried to speak again, but he waved her off as he turned his eyes back to the road. “Care about some of the things and creatures in it, though, right? And care about my own undusty self. Helped you with Angelus for me, and for Dru.” He paused ruefully. “For all the good it did me.”

“Well, the world’s not a nice little vacation spot for hell,” Buffy said dryly, “so I think it ended up okay.”

He threw her a quick grin. “And the second time for you, and for Dawn.”

Buffy studied his profile quietly. “What’s your point?”

He took a deep breath, his cheeks sucking in sharply. “Don’t care about the world,” he repeated on the exhale, “or most of the people in it. But I care about you.” He met her gaze, blue eyes glittering. “If I had to kill all of Pittsburgh to keep you safe, you better believe the town would be a wash of red before sunrise. You understand?”

Buffy stared at him, a little stunned and bewildered, before it hit her what he was trying to say. “You… you think I don’t accept you. What you are.”

She received yet another expressive shrug. “I think you work around it.” He chuckled lowly. “Not complaining, mind you, but I’m not about to make it harder for you to do it. Not now, when I finally have you.”

Buffy opened her mouth to make a denial, but let the words drop in uncertainty.  _Was_  she just working around his undead, soulless status? As Buffy Summers, she hadn’t gotten even quite that far. She tolerated it, ignored it, or highlighted it as it suited. She hadn’t even considered working around it as an option when she was the Slayer; not the way she did now.

She followed Spike silently up to his apartment when they arrived outside his building, the wheels turning relentlessly in her brain. By the time he’d let them both in the door and shut it behind them, she’d come to a decision.

She wasn’t just working around it. She’d sought Spike out even half-expecting that he was killing again. She’d sought him out because she wanted his company. Wanted  _him_.

But one look over at Spike as he tensely reviewed the Chinese delivery menu told her that simply explaining that (especially after a sort of unforgivably long delay) wasn’t going to cut it.

Well, she’d always been better at the action-girl thing, anyway.

Her coat and stakes got discarded on the couch, followed by her shoes, shirt, and—shortly thereafter—her jeans. By the time she was unclasping her bra, Spike was fixedly watching her, the Chinese menu forgotten at his feet.

“Buffy?”

She threw him a coy smile and tossed her bra down. Then, with a small swish of her hips, she turned and headed into the bedroom. Predictably, Spike followed.

She ambushed him as he crossed the threshold, flinging herself up into his arms and wrapping her legs around his waist as he automatically caught and held her there. She worried her bottom lip enticingly and watched his eyes zero in on it. “So… you were going to show me how untamed you still are?”

Spike’s gaze grew dark and hooded, a small smile quirking up his lips. “That was the idea,” he agreed huskily.

Buffy pressed her breasts against his chest, the cool leather of his duster pleasantly chafing her nipples. “Well, get with the showing, Big Bad.”

He lifted a brow. “Thought we were going to get you fed.”

“I’d rather feed you first.”

A small frown crossed his brow, smoothing into a smirk as she wiggled suggestively against him. “That so,” he drawled.

“Mhmm.”

He surveyed her lustfully for a moment, then promptly lifted her up and threw her onto the bed, to her gasp of surprise. He leered at her askew form as he stripped off his own clothes.

“Don’t you look a picture,” he growled as he prowled up the bed to her, his bobbing cock brushing against her lower legs and thighs as he went. “My gorgeous firebrand, with your sweet little body and your pretty little tits.”

Spike’s mouth drew level with the tits in question and his tongue darted out to trace a lightning hot path of pleasure around them. A moan escaped from Buffy’s lips and she instinctively arched her back, pressing herself further into his touch. Spike took the opportunity to grab her wrists and pin them underneath the new gap between her back and the bed. And then he bit her nipple. Hard.

Buffy’s head snapped up with a shocked cry, meeting Spike’s half-lidded and unapologetic gaze. As she watched, he slowly slid into game face, the almost inaudible shifting of his bones surprisingly loud against only their combined breathing. It was the first time he’d purposefully loosed the demon in bed, and she found herself entranced by his unblinking amber eyes. He really was a beautiful demon—in the way that a wild, prehistoric creature could be beautiful. Everything was emphasized in a warning of power, from his thickened upper jaw to his Slayer-bestowed scar.

“I’m going to fuck you hard,” he told her, his voice a dark growl.

Buffy’s breath caught in her chest with a pleasant shudder.  _Oh._  She was pretty sure that kind of demonic promise wasn’t supposed to be as erotic as it was. But what had Spike said? That there was nothing bad or wrong in sex?

“Yes.”

She watched his Adam’s apple bob at her acquiescence, a solid reminder that most of this game was just that: a game.

Shifting her pinned wrists to one hand, Spike slid his now free left hand down her body to her calf. He lifted it up until her leg rested over his shoulder, leaving her wide open and exposed as he pinned her other leg underneath his knee. She could feel herself drench her underwear as she realized how vulnerably her current position placed her. Then Spike ripped said underwear away and an unintentional, excited mewl tore from her throat.

Maybe Spike wasn’t the only one with domination issues.

But then, Buffy was still in charge, and she knew it. One word (they’d decided on ‘laundry’) and everything would stop. In the most twisted way, Buffy was the only one forcing herself to remain vulnerable. She, by proxy of Spike, was dominating her own body.

What a head-turningly weird idea.

Spike’s cock pressing against her folds broke her from her thoughts, but she barely had time to enjoy the sensation before he plunged into her to the hilt, stretching her unprepared walls in a dizzying haze of pleasure and pain.

“Oh, fuck,” he snarled, hips thrusting almost spasmodically into her. “God, Buffy, you’re so fucking tight.”

“Uh… uh,” she agreed breathlessly, arching up as much as her pinned arms would allow.

Spike drew back slightly before plunging into her again with such bruising force that he knocked the air from her lungs as she absorbed the blow. He paused for a moment at her unwilling ‘oomph’, but she just shook her head.

“Fuck me hard,” she echoed, holding his ambered gaze.

He snarled agreement and delivered another unforgiving thrust, hitting some sensitive place deep inside her with such violence that Buffy nearly screamed, but instead found herself chanting a constant, mindless litany of “yes, yes,  _yes_.”

Spike growled in time to her words as he set a damningly hard pace, his voice lisping over fangs. “Feel that, Slayer? Does that hurt in all the right places?” At her desperate nod, he grinned evilly. “When I’m done with you, pet, you’re not going to walk for a week.”

He punctuated his words with another thrust that sent her forcibly off the edge, and her orgasm ripped through her with almost frightening intensity.

“Oh god,” she gasped.

Spike rumbled low in his throat, his pace shifting up as he pounded as deeply inside her as he could go, forcing the remnants of her orgasm to continue jolting through her. “So fucking good,” he growled by her ear, in a dangerous lover’s whisper. “Going to leave your pink pussy all red and battered and then I’m going to eat you out until you’re too hoarse to speak.” He paused and nipped the shell of her ear as she moaned. “And then, guess what, luv?”

She shook her head violently. “W-what?”

“Then I’m going to do it again.” His fingers swept down to her clit and pinched it roughly, and she came again with a startled, pained cry of ecstasy.

Her newest convulsions made him roar and she became distantly aware that he was suddenly fighting his demon face, shifting away from her neck.

“No,” she demanded hoarsely.

His gaze snapped to hers questioningly.

“Bite me.”

His amber eyes widened. “Buffy…”

“Bite me!”

“Fuck,” he swore, his fangs elongating as he dove for her jugular. She felt the telltale piercing of fangs a moment later, so slim and delicate compared to the heavy, pleasure-pain of his cock. When he started to drink, bright light exploded from behind her eyes, every nerve suddenly awake and pulsing with exaltation. Everything dissolved into weightless rapture—the closest sensation to heaven she’d felt since her stint there.

And then everything fell to black.

Buffy woke to Spike’s worried voice. “Buffy? Buffy, luv? Pet, wake up. Ah, that’s a good girl. Come back now.”

She blinked blearily at his concerned human guise, a small, goofy smile coating her lips. “Wow,” she murmured, her brain still short-circuiting. “That was… wow.”

Spike blinked at her then grinned, all the lines on his brow smoothing. “Glad you think so, kitten.” He brushed a strand of copper hair away from her face, and she was dimly aware that he’d unpinned her and rearranged her body against his chest. “Was bloody marvelous from my end.” He bent and nuzzled her neck, lips teasing her new, hypersensitive bite mark. “God, I can’t believe you let me bite you.”

She giggled, turning slightly more toward him in his arms. “If I’d known it was going to feel like that, I would have let you do it a long time ago. Dracula’s bite felt… good, but it wasn’t anything like yours.”

A low chuckle reverberated against her throat. “That’s because I do it right.” Spike sniffed at her hair with a slow, happy inhalation. “You’re delicious, by the way. Blood has a bit of zing to it. Must be a Potential thing.” She felt him smile against her skin. “Or a Buffy thing. How are you feeling?”

“A bit lightheaded, but good. Very, very good.” She closed her eyes against his cool, bare chest. “But let’s sleep a little before dinner and homework, mkay?”

There was a small, loving kiss placed on her brow as supporting arms curled around her waist. “Whatever you like, pet.”

 

***

 

Buffy was sitting in the middle of calculus the next day (College math? Big no, both times. Too bad it was required to graduate) when it happened. Annoyance was making her grip her pen way more tightly than was healthy, and she was getting major side-eye from the professor for using a pen at all, as he seemed to think number two pencils were god’s gift to mathematicians (he flat-out refused to allow laptops in the classroom).

When the vertigo hit, Buffy thought for a minute that all the fiasco of letters pretending to numbers had actually, finally, just gone to her head. Or maybe it was some weird, delayed reaction to Spike’s bite. Then the pen in her hand snapped cleanly in two.

For a long moment, Buffy just stared at the mangled writing utensil as it slowly oozed blue ink all over her reluctant notes about Riemann sums.

Katie, next to her, nudged her subtly, with a raised brow. “Uh, hey, need a pencil?”

Buffy didn’t reply. She flexed her ink-stained hand, trembling at the power that rippled with that simple motion. Every inch of her thrummed with it, sinking into her bones and hiding the constant, sudden urge to be in motion.

It was the most familiar feeling in the world.

Oh god.

Buffy Gallagher was the Slayer.


	14. Ready or Not

_The Slayer. Oh my god, I’m the Slayer. I’m the Slayer._

Katie nudged her again, her eyes wide and concerned. “Buffy? You okay?”

Was laughing hysterically uncalled for?  _I’m the Slayer. Nothing is maybe ever going to be okay again._

Buffy swallowed, shaking her head slightly. “Um, fine. I just… I need to go make a call.”

_I’m the Slayer._

Ignoring the mounting number of stares from the other lecture hall students and her professor’s glare, Buffy grabbed her backpack and ran from the room. She left the soaked notepad on her desk. It wasn’t like she’d probably go back to that class ever again, anyway. Not now.

Once she was safely out in the hallway, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket with a trembling hand and dialed Spike’s number, throwing her head back against the wall as it rang. The sheetrock cracked behind her, and she whimpered.

_I’m the Slayer._

Spike’s voice was muzzy with sleep when he answered. “Buffy? Everything alright?”

She meant to say something that was, at minimum, coherent, but all that came out of her mouth was a kind of garbled sob.

Spike gave a sharp intake of breath and then barked a panicked, “Slayer, where are you? Are you hurt?”

Buffy shook her head then realized he couldn’t see it. “Slayer,” she gasped out, sinking to the floor.

There was a short silence, then a firm, “Buffy, tell me where you are. I’m coming to get you.”

That jolted her out of her shock by an inch. “No! Daylight!”

Spike’s chuckle vibrated across the line. “And that’s stopped me when, exactly?” She could hear his relief at her more word-filled reply. “Just tell me where you are.”

Buffy drew in a long, shuddering breath and wrangled her tongue into working, although her voice was still shaky. “I-I’ll meet you at my dorm room in twenty minutes?”

Spike grunted. “Make it ten.”

“Okay.”

“See you soon, luv.”

The call clicked to an end. Buffy stared at her phone for a long moment before stuffing it back into her pocket and clenching her fists until the joints cracked.

She stood and went to pick up her backpack from the floor, then stopped. What was the point? She’d tried this before as Buffy Summers; being the Slayer and a normal college girl. It had never worked.

She left the backpack where it was and headed toward the dining hall. There were always piles of cardboard boxes out back that she could easily ransack.

She had a dorm room to pack.

 

***

 

Buffy had just finished taping up her third box when the telltale, prickled warning of  _vampire_  slammed into her with almost breathtaking force. For ten minutes, she’d managed to keep her mind on the task at hand—managed to not think about everything that being Called meant, beyond the imminent task of withdrawing from college—but there was no ignoring the frisson of her now again sixth sense. The siren call of danger. Of battle. Of power.

_I’m the Slayer._

She yanked open her room door, nearly taking it off its hinges (god, that was going to take time to get used to again), and stepped into the hall. Spike, a dozen steps away, lifted a brow at her in worried question.

“I felt you coming,” she whispered.

He stared at her for a long moment before bafflement faded to understanding. “Bloody hell. I thought I…” He took a hesitant step forward. “So that’s what you meant on the phone.”

Buffy smiled weakly, slumping in her doorway as she fought the urge to laugh or cry, or both. “The Slayer title is accurate again, after all.”

Spike swallowed roughly, a strange vulnerability in his eyes. He didn’t come any closer. “Am I still welcome?”

She blinked. “What?”

He waved over himself with a sharp gesture, tight resignation etching across his face. “Vampire, pet.”

She said the first thing that popped into her overwhelmed head. “You don’t kill people.”

It was the wrong thing.

Spike froze, then took a clear step backward, his face molding into a careful, neutral mask. “Right. Because that’s the defining characteristic of our relationship again, innit? Read you loud and clear,  _Slayer_.”

Shit shit shit shit. Oh god, she had to fix this. She’d just lost her life as she knew it in the middle of math class. She wasn’t going to lose Spike.

Buffy followed her retreating vampire into the hallway, palms held out pleadingly. “No,” she said softly, “it’s not our defining characteristic. It matters to me that you aren’t killing—I can’t pretend it doesn’t, especially now that it’s my job again to keep that kind of thing from happening—but it’s not… it’s not  _the_ thing that matters.” She forced herself to look into his eyes, into the immense hurt and worry that resided there. “I care about you. You mean… a lot to me.”

Unexpectedly, he shut down at her words, regarding her with a frigidness reminiscent of their early Sunnydale days. Before he’d loved her, when she was just another Slayer for his belt.

“No need to soothe my vanity, Buffy. Not going anywhere,” he said tersely. Then his expression cracked, his mouth drawing a bitter, hopeless line. “Whatever you need, bit of muscle or what have you, I’ll be–”

“Spike, stop!”

He obediently shut up, though his jaw was tight with strain. He wouldn’t look her in the eyes anymore, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

Buffy’s hand rose to her neck almost of its own accord, fingers finding the bite mark he’d made the night before. The scabbed wound she’d had this morning was gone, turned to a slightly raised scar—her Slayer healing already at work. It still tingled under her touch, and all of her senses were immediately taken back to those pure moments of pleasure as he drank from her. She’d been safe under his fangs—had trusted him with her life against all of his instincts.

She was going to have to trust him now against all of hers.

Biting her lip, she fixed him with a wry half-smile. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

Spike lifted his head just slightly, brow furrowing. “Say it? Say what?”

A sigh wound out from her, heavy with nerves and annoyance. “That I’m some percentage in love with you, you idiot.”

Spike’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “What?”

Butterflies overtook her stomach and she barely managed to suppress the desire to bolt back into her room. “You heard me.”

Spike regarded her silently, unreadably for a long moment, then his mouth quirked up. “You’re some percentage in love with me?”

“Yes.”

His face took on a predatorily intent sheen and he prowled toward her, pausing a hairsbreadth from touching her. The tingling warning of his presence grew heavier, almost more invasive than she ever remembered from her time as Buffy Summers. “Just  _some_  percentage, luv?”

She rolled her eyes. “You never know when to stop pushing, do you?”

“Know when,” he said softly, with a smirk. “Just don’t care.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head in defeat. “The young parts of me,” she said after a moment, “are madly, girlishly in love with you.”

Spike regarded her carefully. “And the old parts? The bits and bobs from Buffy Summers, esquire?”

Buffy shrugged ruefully. “Those parts are afraid to admit it.”

“Admit…” A slow, awed smile brightened his face. “God, Buffy. I love you so much.”

An answering, quavering smile drew apart her lips. “I know.”

Then they were falling backward through her doorway, Spike’s lips mauling hers as his hands tugged demandingly against her clothing. Buffy managed to break apart from his lips just long enough to gasp out, “The door!” before tumbling backwards onto her bed.

Spike turned swiftly with a growl and slammed the door shut before flinging off his duster and fumbling with his belt, finally settling for simply ripping it off and taking his belt loops with it. His jeans dropped to the floor, his hardened cock leaping up eagerly against his still-clothed stomach.

Buffy pulled her sweatshirt off as she sat askew on the bed, and was starting to wiggle out of her jeans when Spike stopped her with a hand on her thigh, his voice low and husky. “Let me.”

She paused and met his dark gaze. “Make me.”

Spike startled, his touch flinching against her as he searched her gaze. “What?”

“Make. Me.”

His growl reverberated in the air near her as he grinned. “Bloody right I’ll make you, Slayer.”

Buffy licked her lips, then flung out her leg and promptly kicked Spike away. He went crashing backward, hitting the door with near breaking force.

Spike laughed as he regained his balance, his blue eyes bright and mirthful. “Shutting the door’s not going to have done much good if we break straight through it, luv.”

Buffy flushed. “Sorry. Still getting used to this again.”

His grin widened. “Not saying I mind. Just pointing out the obvious.”

“Well, make less with the pointing and more with the…”

“Shagging you senseless?”

Buffy shook her head at his devilish expression, watching as his tongue curled behind his front teeth in that damningly dirty way of his. “Definitely senseless. Senseless sounds perfect for now.”

He strode back toward her, ripping off his t-shirt as he went. “We’re going to break your bed.”

“Well, I’m moving out, anyway.”

That halted Spike in his tracks and he glanced around her messy room, apparently noticing the scattered and half-filled boxes for the first time. “What’s this now?”

Buffy sighed and sat up. “I tried the college thing with slaying before. It didn’t work.”

“Had some other issues thrown in there, too, luv.”

Buffy held his gaze. “There are always going to be other issues.” She shrugged, trying for a cheerful smile. “But, hey, between two lifetimes, I have about half of one college career.” Another thought entered then, chilling her to the bone. “God, Spike… Mrs. Klein was right. She’s been right about everything so far. What if…” She stared at him helplessly. “What if I really do come back for lifetime number three?”

Spike was to her side in an instant, his eyes blazing. “Then I’ll find you.”

Her sudden panic fell away, thrust down under a whirlwind of need and.... love. It was love. She really was in love with Spike.

She brushed her fingers across his lower lip, holding his determined gaze. “I love you.”

He stopped breathing, and she watched a wash of gold slide across his irises. He started to say something, but stopped and simply slammed his mouth against hers.

Buffy responded with an almost inhuman moan, tugging Spike forward until he was sprawled over her on the tiny twin bed, his erection pressed urgently against her stomach. Her legs twined around his, sure and powerful and fluid with grace—legs that had almost been almost geriatrically stiff just half an hour ago, from Spike’s rough treatment the night before (despite his later, incredibly gentle massage and a hot shower).

And her girl parts… well, previously, those puppies had been deemed out of commission for likely a week. But the stinging soreness was gone now, replaced with the swell of wet arousal.

As if reading her mind, Spike paused from where he was shoving her jeans down her legs. “How are you?”

She kicked her pants the rest of the way off and wrapped a leg around his waist, using the leverage to flip them so Spike was pinned beneath her. The motion was as easy as breathing. Giggling at his surprised expression, Buffy felt the ongoing litany in her brain transition from panic to pride for the first time since math class. “I’m the Slayer.”

Spike’s breathing increased beneath her, his face nearly glazed with lust. “Yeah, you are.” He very pointedly drew his hands up past his head until he was grasping the wood-slatted headboard. “What’re you going to do with me, Slayer?”

A grin stole across her lips. “Oh, I’m definitely still in favor of the shagging senseless thing. Only…” she lowered her voice to a purr, wrapping a hand around Spike’s swollen cock and slowly drawing back his foreskin, “I’ve decided you’re going to be the one on the receiving end.”

Spike’s hoarse groan was her only reply. As his eyes fluttered shut against her touch, she angled him to her entrance and sank down.

Oh  _god_.

Like so much in her multiple lives, this was nothing and everything like before; her pre-orgasm-slick walls still almost too tight against his sudden girth. But whereas last night had been a steep climb of pleasure-pain, today it was simply pleasure, her pain tolerance rocketed into supernatural territory.

Or maybe she just liked it that much more now.

She shifted almost thoughtlessly, clenching her internal muscles, and Spike gave what sounded like a pained gasp, throwing his head back against her pillow. The wooden headboard fractured slightly beneath his fingers.

“Fucking hell,” was his deep, shocked growl.

“Spike?”

His head lifted up, eyes dark with desire as they met hers. “Do it again,” he demanded breathlessly. “Christ, do it again.”

Buffy blinked, brow furrowing. She hadn’t done…  _oh_. Licking her lips, she very slowly tightened her internal muscles around his cock and watched him collapse beneath her into a growling, panting mess. “Like that?”

“ _Fuck_.”

She’d forgotten all about  _those_  muscles in the last twenty years. The few times she’d accidently used them on Riley, he’d yelped and softened inside her immediately and she’d had to coax him to completion with her less dangerous mouth. It had made her feel like she had some horrible, real-life vagina dentata. Somewhat luckily for Riley’s genitals and her already shredded self-esteem, p-in-v with Riley never made her orgasm. Not that much with Riley had made her orgasm, to be honest, but he’d tried. He’d just never understood what made her tick. To be fair, she’d hardly understood it herself.

Ironically (like most of her existence), her new body had done wonders for her understanding of the old one.

Spike thrust up into her with a low, pleading growl. “God, Buffy, you’re going to kill me if you don’t move soon.”

She stared down at him, at this vampire who only last night had been uncompromisingly dominating and who now lay underneath her in abject submission, encouraging her in every way possible to take advantage of her newly regained powers. At this vampire who was now working to make the insanity her life had suddenly become… okay.

Buffy lifted herself up, hands balancing on his hips as all but the tip of his cock was exposed to the air, and then plunged back down, tightening her muscles as she did so.

“ _Bloody fuck_!” The headboard splintered completely under Spike’s grip and he snarled as he wrenched his hands away, bringing one hand down instead to work her clit and leaving the other against the swell of her ass she rose and fell on his cock.

“Yeah, that’s right, Slayer, ride me like the bloody Valkyrie you are,” was his husky, strained refrain as his thumb worked relentlessly against her swollen nub. “Throw that firebrand hair back—yeah, just like that. Oh, those pretty bouncing titties of yours, so fucking gorgeous…And Christ, your muscles... Forget shagging me senseless… too much of this and my brains are going to– _fuck_.”

Her orgasm burst through her with hurricane force, and Buffy found herself mewling helplessly as she strangled Spike’s cock. Her release seemed to break something in her vampire, because he slid into game face and slammed up into her, sending her screaming into a second orgasm.

“Going to make me dust,” he snarled over his fangs, “with that cunt.”

His fingers dug into her hips with painful, delicious force as he groaned and shuddered his own release a few moments later, pulling her down to his chest as they both collapsed onto her bed.

The frame creaked ominously as they lay there panting, and Buffy squeaked as something snapped and the bed tilted dangerously to the right. Spike’s arms wrapped around her protectively, but relaxed after a moment when nothing else seemed to give, and he shifted them slightly to the other side of the bed in counterbalance.

Buffy giggled from where her head was pressed against Spike’s chest, feeling lightheaded and semi-euphoric. “I hope your bed is better reinforced, or else we’re going to go through a lot of furniture.” She felt Spike startle and looked up, meeting his surprised expression with sudden consternation. “I mean… if you’re okay having me there.”

Spike regarded her with an unreadable gaze, brow raised. “Are you wanting to move in with me, luv?”

The wary notes in his voice sent a deep flush into her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have assumed… I mean–”

“Buffy.” Spike glared at her narrowly. “If you think for a single bloody second that I would say no, then you’re completely off your bird.” He lifted a hand and let his fingers slide through her hair, his expression slightly sheepish. “Was going to ask, anyhow.”

“Ask?”

“You to move in.” He gave her a hard look. “Not letting you out of my sight now.”

Buffy swallowed, the reality of her situation sinking back into uneasy panic. “Spike… god, I’m the  _Slayer_.”

He nuzzled her hair with a small, comforting rumble. “I know, pet. I know.” He sighed. “Best call Red before the Wankers send out the dogs.”

“Dogs?”

“Metaphorically speaking.” He brushed a kiss against her lips before shifting out from under her and climbing to his feet to rummage through his discarded duster. It was eerily like their first morning together after reuniting, with Spike pulling out his cellphone, unabashedly naked in her dorm room.

And yet the universe had all but tilted on its axis since then.

“What happened to the Slayer, Red?” Spike demanded as Willow apparently picked up on the other side of the line. He listened intently for a long moment, looking grave, then rolled his eyes. “I know because the new one’s right next to me.” Then, “No, you can’t bloody well talk to her right now, she’s still trying to wrap her head around the whole thing.”

Not to mention that giving newly Slayered-up Buffy a direct line to chew out her old friend was probably not going to go well for anyone.

There was a sigh. “Watchers didn’t call you because they’re not here. I am.” He growled at whatever was said next. “Look, you want to play twenty questions with me or do you want to start getting ready for a new girl?” A pause. “Yeah, name’s Meg Gallagher.” Another pause. “She’s in your system. Just fucking look her up.” Then, obviously not waiting for a reply, Spike clicked the ‘end call’ button and threw his phone on her bed.

Buffy stared at the silver device, forcing her breath to remain even. “So, what happened to the last Slayer?”

“Whole team got wiped out,” Spike said heavily, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. “Trap over in Cairo by some big nasty. Didn’t get much detail, but didn’t sound pretty.”

And so it began. Buffy smiled weakly. “Well, I guess I know where I’ll be heading first then.”

Spike’s eyes widened as he turned abruptly toward her, earning an ominous squeal from the broken bed. “Bugger that!”

“Spike, I’m the Slayer now. It’s what I do.” She shuddered, her words from Glory’s tower so long ago coming back with a vengeance. “What I… what I have to do.”

What she had already done, once upon a time. Until she’d been ripped from heaven—from the peaceful rest that was the final reward for every Chosen girl—and forced to do it all again.

And now… forced into it for a third time, and maybe over and over again until the end of time.

_I’m the Slayer._

It was a moment before she realized she had started sobbing. Spike’s arms were around her the next instant, rocking her tightly in his lap.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “What am I going to do with you? Most Slayers don’t get a strong deathwish for years, and you’ve been carrying one for decades.” He lifted her chin when her sobs lessened slightly, glaring at her. “You so much as  _think_  the words ‘reckless’ or ‘giving up’ and I’ll put you in the ground myself.”

Buffy managed a shaky, broken laugh. “If I really thought I’d be likely to stay there, it might be more tempting, but I’ve had enough of being a child for a while.”

“You better have,” he snarled.

Buffy crushed herself tightly against his bare chest, her knees folded nearly up to her chin. “Spike… you’re not allowed to leave me.”

Spike’s voice was hoarse as he rested his forehead against her temple, his cool lips pressed against her skin. “I won’t, Buffy. Never.”

“You promise?”

“’Til the end of the world, Slayer. I’ll be here.”


	15. Meg Gallagher, Vampire Slayer

It didn’t take more than half an hour for Spike’s phone to ring. Buffy was still cradled in Spike’s arms, her head pressed against his naked shoulder, although the vampire had moved them onto the floor and was now using her broken bedframe as a back support. Buffy had almost been asleep, fatigued from crying and indulging in the simple desire to remove thinking from the equation for a while.

The generic ringtone jolted her rudely back into the waking world.

A low, dangerous growl rumbled through Spike’s chest as he blindly grabbed back for the phone still lying on her comforter. Grasping it, he snorted at the number and then clicked the speakerphone with a scathing, “Didn’t take Red long to run off to daddy, did it?”

“Charming, as always,” came a drawling British voice, familiar and masculine. Wesley’s voice, Buffy realized, although the tone held a much rougher edge than she remembered it having, whether from age or something else. “Really, do remind me why I employ you?”

“My dashing good looks,” Spike said dryly.

“Ah, yes,” came the equally dry reply. “That must be it.” There was a short sigh. “I assume our new Slayer is still in your company?”

“You know what they say about assumptions, Oxford.”

“Oh, for–” Wesley’s voice cut off into irritated silence. Buffy could almost hear the gritting of teeth across the line. “Is Miss Gallagher with you or not?”

Spike’s gaze flicked to hers, an edge of wicked amusement curling his lips. Apparently her ex-evil vampire still had to get his kicks in somewhere. “Yeah, she’s here, Wes. Don’t get your girly knickers in a twist.”

“Excellent,” came Wesley’s annoyed voice. “Well, please do me the good turn of informing her that there will be a jet waiting for her at the Pittsburgh airport at 10 p.m. that will bring her to the Council Headquarters here in London. She should pack for, oh, say five days of travel. All I need you to do is deliver her to the local Watcher’s headquarters as soon as possible. A Mr…” There was a small pause and the sound of shuffling papers. “Ryan Lindow will take the lead from there.”

Buffy sat up in Spike’s arms, panic coursing through her. “No.”

There was a long moment of silence, then, “I gather that was Miss Gallagher speaking?”

“You’re on speakerphone,” Spike supplied lazily, though his expression was tight with worried curiosity as he watched her.

“Ah. Well, in that case… Miss Gallagher, please allow me to introduce myself. I–”

“You’re Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, head of the Watcher’s Council,” Buffy interrupted shortly.

“Director, as a matter of fact,” was the surprised, somewhat stiff reply. There was a pause, then a muttered, “I suppose I should be grateful Spike bothered to relay my identity correctly at all.”

Spike smirked at the phone.

“Regardless,” Wesley continued more smoothly, “it’s rather important that you come to us as soon as possible. I imagine you can understand. I take it you have an issue with the current itinerary?”

“The issue,” Buffy said calmly, “is that Spike is coming with me, or your plane is going to be Slayerless.”

Spike’s muscles tensed beneath her, the edges of his mouth tightening, although his eyes softened in equal measure.

There was another silence on the line, then a tight-edged, “Spike, what–”

“This wasn’t his request,” Buffy interrupted. “It’s mine. I’m guessing you’ve already seen in my records that Spike and I are… old friends.” She highly doubted Ryan had left out that observation, particularly considering the fact that she and Spike always arrived and left together when visiting the dojo.

There was another small pause. “I did see that,” was Wesley’s strangely cautious admittance.

“Good. Then you understand why he’s coming.” Then, realizing how rude this probably sounded (poor Wesley, he was always getting the worst of her), Buffy winced. “Please. I’ll feel much better if I have a familiar face with me.”

She could almost hear Wesley thinking. “You realize,” came the slow, apprehensive reply, “that a Slayer feeling comfortable in the presence of a known Slayer killer isn’t exactly… usual?”

So that’s what he was worried about. “You don’t need to worry. I know my job, We– Director.”

“Wes or Wesley is fine.”

“Okay. Wesley, then.” Buffy stared down at the phone. “I know my job. I’m well aware that Spike is an exception to the rule.”

Spike smirked. “An exception. That’s me.”

“Heaven help us,” Wesley added. There was a loud sigh. “Well, then. Spike, it seems you will be accompanying Miss Gallagher to England. I trust you can ensure her safe and timely arrival at the airport?”

Spike looked like he wanted to say something snarky, but eventually just gave a nod Wesley couldn’t see. “Yeah.”

“Delightful. Miss Gallagher, I look forward to meeting you. Safe travels.”

“Thanks.”

Spike clicked the call to end with a raised brow. “Starting off a mite strong, don’t you think?” His expression turned troubled. “Might need to step more carefully, luv. Don’t think the Council’ll take well to us being involved. I wasn’t really planning on telling them, mind you, but if they figure it out…”

“Then they can go suck lemons,” Buffy finished sharply. “I didn’t let the Council make my decisions for me before, and I’m sure as heck not going to now.” She brushed a hand across her worried vampire’s cheek and watched his eyes flutter shut against her touch. “And if they do anything to try and take away what’s mine, I’ll make them all wish for the days when Buffy Summers was the most troublesome Slayer in recent memory.”

Spike’s eyes flicked open and he chuckled. “My bloodthirsty Slayer. Always loved that about you.”

Buffy balked. “I’m not bloodthirsty.”

That earned her an amused snort. “Really? Seem to recall you almost walloped a girl yesterday just for having an eye on my goods.”

Oh. Right. Still…

“I don’t  _want_  to be at odds with the Council now,” she said stubbornly. “I’m just… preparing for the possibility.”

Spike looked at her knowingly. “So there’s not a part of you wanting to stick it to them—and Red, especially—because chances are good that you’re involuntarily stuck playing their hero until god knows when?” When Buffy didn’t reply, he added, “I can practically taste your resentment, luv.”

Damn perceptive vampire. Buffy sighed, exasperated. “Fine. I’d be lying if I said no.”

“Never stopped you before. You had the sanctimonious act down pat in Sunnydale.”

“Gee, thanks.”

The vampire just gave her an entirely unrepentant look and wrapped his arms more tightly around her. She was suddenly, vividly aware of his erection pressing against her inner thigh. “Just calling it as it was, Slayer.”

“I guess it’s a good thing Buffy Summers of Sunnydale is dead then, huh?” She threw him a wry smile. “It’s the era of Meg Gallagher, Vampire Slayer now.”

Spike shifted beneath her, sending a firm hand down to spread her legs as he slid his cock inside her with torturous slowness, to her moaning gasp. “Long live Meg Gallagher, Vampire Slayer,” he murmured.

 

***

 

Six hours later, she and Spike were at the airport, luggage in tow. Ryan met them on the tarmac, looking somewhat bemused at Buffy’s likely grim expression.

“I don’t know if I should be congratulating you or apologizing to you.” He shook his head. “Most of the girls… they would’ve been ecstatic right now. But you…”

“I’m not naïve?” Buffy offered quietly, as the loading stairs lowered from the jet.

“Maybe that’s it.” Ryan regarded her silently for a moment. “You’re the first Slayer I’ve met, you know.”

Spike snorted. “Well, take a good gander, mate, because she’s also the best one you’ll ever meet.”

Ryan laughed and gave Buffy a speculative look. “Spike does seem to be the only one who ever won against you at the dojo.”

“I’ve never won against her,” Spike muttered, so lowly that she knew Ryan didn’t hear, as they boarded the plane.

Luckily, it was just the three of them and the pilots on a jet made for twelve, so there was room and privacy aplenty. Ryan set up shop near the cockpit and Buffy and Spike took the rear of the plane. As the plane rose to full altitude, Buffy watched the thick blanket of night-covered clouds beneath them, her thoughts tumbling over themselves.

“I remember the first time I ever flew,” Spike said softly, and Buffy’s gaze snapped over to him. The vampire was looking out the window, his gaze soft with memory. When he saw he had her attention, he flashed her a brief smile. “Wasn’t until after the first world war. 1934. We had aircraft before that, of course, but not much commercial aviation until the planes came back from bombing Germany and someone with an eye for money decided to repurpose them for the public. Imperial Airways was the big airliner in Britain back then. Would take a bloke to any corner of the Empire.”

Sometimes it was easy to forget that Spike had lived through most of modern-day history, but then he’d do something like now and talk about a piece of life that she hadn’t even considered the origins of and it would hit again that she was dating someone literally over a century old. Would that be her, if she lived through a few more lifetimes? Would she end up talking about the mysterious days before cell phones and twitter?

“What was it like?”

Spike chuckled. “Honestly? Bloody awful. Didn’t have jet engines back then—all pistons, you know?”

“Uh… sure?”

He grinned at her lost tone. “Engines were almost loud enough to make a normal bloke deaf, never mind a vampire. And the turbulence about rattled my fangs out of my skull.” His expression soured. “Didn’t help that Dru bitched the whole time. And she was the one who wanted to go on the damn flight.”

“Did the pixies tell her to go, or something?”

Spike gave her a tolerantly amused look. “Not everything Dru did was based on the bloody pixies. She was crazy, not possessed.” He shrugged. “She just wanted to know what it felt like to fly.” He glanced around the cabin speculatively. “Still, for all the actual rubbish of the flight, the interior of the plane was as posh as this, if not more.”

Buffy blinked. The Council jet was—by far—the nicest plane she’d ever been in. It looked a lot like the private planes from the movies, with wide, facing seats and bolted down tables. There was even a small bar to the left and a TV on the wall.

“As nice as this? Really?”

Spike sprawled more comfortably in his seat. “Sure, luv. Flying was a luxury back then. Only the richest wankers did it.”

Buffy raised a brow. “And evil, cavorting vampires.”

“And them,” Spike agreed with a grin. He motioned around the cabin. “Anyhow, they pretty much took the amenities from a train and plopped them in a plane. For the longer flights, the planes had dining areas and waiters and beds.”

“Huh. So you might end up deaf and needing dental work, but you’d do it in style.”

Spike grinned. “Right you are.”

“Have any more tidbits floating around that brain of yours?”

“Loads. Got a yen for a bit of history tonight, do you?”

“It just keeps my brain from going in circles.” Kept it from thinking of what awaited her in London. Kept it from thinking of what she had to tell parents. Kept it from thinking of reincarnating for the rest of forever.

Spike regarded her unreadably for a long moment. “Think I know how to take your attention off things.” She expected some kind of leer to follow that statement, but he just bent to pull something out of his bag. The next thing she knew, he’d dropped a pile of books onto the table in front of them. Frowning in confusion, she nudged through the stack.  _The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Selected Poems by Emily Dickinson. The Metamorphosis. Candide._

“Spike… what is this?”

“Exactly what it looks like, Slayer. Classwork.” He tapped the anthology. “And I want you ready to discuss the poems I marked by next week.”

Buffy stared at him, her bewilderment growing. “Okay, A: I quit college and B: these weren’t the texts in my classes.”

Spike just raised a brow. “That so? Well, A: if you think I’m letting you give up your education again, you’re fucking delusional, and B…” his tongue snaked behind his teeth, “you better do your homework like a good girl or I’ll spank you.”

A light bulb switched on in her brain. “Wait.  _You’re_  planning to teach me?”

Spike’s expression turned a bit sheepish as a hand rose to the back of his neck. “Well, I’m a bit rusty, admittedly, but the academic world doesn’t move that bloody quickly. I’ve checked in every couple of decades.”

“Checked in? As in, it’s somewhere you were previously?”

Spike opened his mouth, then froze. After a second, he seemed to reconsider and shut it again, finally closing his eyes in a long, defeated blink. “Have a Masters in Literature from Cambridge floating around somewhere,” he finally muttered, not looking at her.

And she’d thought her world couldn’t really tilt on its axis any further after this afternoon’s events.

She’d been wrong.

William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers, had been a virginal  _scholar_  as a man. Well, that explained the knowledge of Yeats and Latin, and all the poetic, dirty nothings he liked to whisper as he made love to her.

When Buffy made to reply, Spike was glaring at her so fiercely that she managed to hold in her smile. “So I’m guessing this is another one of those things you’ll kill me for if I ever share it with anybody.”

“Bloody right it is.”

She nodded. “Okay then.”

Spike regarded her warily. “Okay?”

“Yes.”

The tension seemed to drain from his face. “Well, alright.” He offered her a strangely shy half-smile. “Can’t do much about a degree from my end, but I figure the Council of Wankers might be able to get you an honorary sometime.”

Love for the vampire next to her nearly choked her and Buffy had to keep from reaching over to kiss him. Having Ryan catch them mid-liplock wasn’t how she wanted her relationship with Spike to get unveiled to the Council.

“It’s okay,” she murmured instead, laying her hand across his on the seat. “It was never really about the degree. I just wanted to… be there. I wanted the experience.”

Spike frowned, looking down uncertainly at their twined hands. “’Fraid I can only give you the classroom part, luv. And even that’ll be humanities heavy.” He wrinkled his nose. “Not going to touch your modern maths.”

A small laugh escaped her. “Believe me, that’s perfect.” Then, very softly, she whispered, “I love you.”

Blue eyes turned burning and bright. “Love you, too,” he replied reverently, equally quietly. His free hand rose, fingers twining into her curls. “My firebrand. Glorious Slayer.”

“Poet,” she accused.

Spike gave a small half-grimace. “I’m never going to hear the end of that now, am I?”

“Never.”

"Bugger."


	16. The Rules of Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Immense thanks to Fraggleshrew for her invaluable locating of RL buildings for the previous and current CoW HQ

There should’ve been suspenseful music. Or fanfare. Or  _something_. Something that denoted the fact that Willow Rosenberg, ex-friend and resurrecter extraordinaire, now stood about three feet away.

Incredibly—considering Spike's flammability—they'd made it from Heathrow and through half of London in mid-afternoon with relative ease due to stereotypically dreary cloud cover, light rain, and what had apparently been magically tinted windows in the waiting Council car.

It was an ease that came to an abrupt end as they all but ran smack dab into Willow inside the entrance of the new Council headquarters.

She looked remarkably like the Willow that Buffy remembered, although her baby-round cheeks had turned into a baby-round face—her once lean frame now sporting an extra twenty or thirty pounds—and crow’s feet littered the edges of her wearied eyes. She was still favoring earthen tones, although she had transitioned them into a modern pantsuit in lieu of the corduroys and long skirts that Buffy remembered.

While Buffy stood frozen in place, Willow moved toward them and shared a brief, stiff hug with Spike.

“Spike. Goddess, it’s been, what, four years?” A familiar half smile curled her lips. “One day, you’re going to have to change your hair, mister.”

Spike rumbled a low chuckle, his stance seemingly relaxed, although Buffy caught the line of tension running down his spine. “Not likely, Red. The white gives me plenty of visibility against your overeager little Watcher pups.”

Willow wiggled her fingers. “I can always add some luminescence.”

There was a slight, heavy pause, and Willow winced. It seemed her past magic usage was still a recognized sore point, even sans knowledge of perpetual Buffy reincarnation.

“Ta, Red, but I’ll pass.” Spike’s voice was flat. Then, clearly and surprisingly trying to break the tension, he raised a brow and nodded toward the empty front desk of the very modern-looking office. “Working reception now?”

Willow laughed. A strange pang went through Buffy at the gratitude and affection coloring the sound. Despite the obvious antagonism between Willow and Spike, they had just as obviously developed some kind of mutual understanding over the years that Buffy knew she wasn't grasping. Maybe she wouldn't ever. And while it rubbed a bit to realize that fact, there was also a kind of strange relief in the idea.

“Oh, no, not usually," Willow said easily. "But, you know, big names come a-calling and I don the hat.” As if that was her cue, she turned toward Buffy, some small, unreadable look crossing her face. For a split second, terror welled; Willow  _knew_ —somehow she knew Meg Gallagher wasn’t just the newest Slayer. But then Willow looked at her fully, and it was with a stranger’s polite regard. “You must be Meg. I’m Willow Rosenberg, the Assistant Director for the Council of Watchers. Welcome to London. And, hey, another redhead! We better stick together, huh?”

Buffy managed to mold her face into a friendly smile, instinctively deciding to keep her side of the conversation to as few words as possible. One Buffy-ism slip and it could all be over. “I guess we'd better.” 

Grinning, Willow didn’t press the introduction any further, moving on to speak with Ryan a few steps away. Irrationally, something dark and burning rose in Buffy’s chest with the action, so bright and abruptly  _furious_  that she suddenly couldn’t see straight. She was just a stranger to Willow, the witch who had taken heaven and rest and her first body away from her. 

Spike drew close enough to subtly press his shoulder against hers, probably sensing the rise in her blood pressure. “You alright?” he asked quietly.

Buffy swallowed, almost unable to tear her eyes away from the other redhead as she sorted out the violence of her emotions. “I think I might hate her,” she managed finally, her voice a shaky whisper. "And I don't think I realized that until just now."

Spike looked at her appraisingly. “At least try to not murder her until we get settled," he said after a moment, with a vicious grin. "I want to be able to properly enjoy watching. Maybe even record it for posterity, yeah?"

Despite everything, a smile found Buffy’s lips. “Stop that.”

Spike lifted a brow. “Stop what?”

“Knowing exactly how to make me feel better.”

Her vampire’s expression turned into a suggestive leer, although it was quickly wiped away as Willow grabbed a folder from the desk and extended it toward Buffy.

“Here’s the itinerary for your visit. We know you guys are probably jetlagged all to heck, so we’ll get you set up in one of the conference rooms to relax for a minute while I find Wes.” She nodded back toward their car driver, a close-mouthed older guy who had followed them inside. “Robert will take your bags to the Ace London Hotel nearby, where we have room reservations for you.”

“Thank you, Ms. Rosenberg,” Ryan said politely. He paused. “I assume my itinerary is yet to be determined?”

Willow’s gaze flicked briefly to Buffy, though Buffy couldn’t exactly figure out why. “Right.”

Spike must’ve caught her baffled look. “Depends on whether he ends up as your Watcher, pet,” he told her lowly.

Her... Oh god. She hadn’t even considered the Watcher issue yet.

Even now, there was a small, deep portion of Buffy that refused to think of anyone except Giles as her Watcher. But, beyond the fact that Giles was apparently playing hermit, it would have probably been way too suspicious to beg for him—a person Meg Gallagher wasn’t probably supposed to have even heard of.

But that only left the possibility of a new Watcher. Not only did the entire thing sound like a logistical and emotional nightmare for keeping her identity a secret, it was hard to say if she could find one who would accept her idiosyncrasies as a Slayer without constant argument.

Buffy followed the others almost numbly through the first floor of the office, all but ignoring Willow as she pointed out the purposes of each section in the open concept workspace—all of it seemingly research or training or evil-monitoring oriented.

Buffy’s gaze darted to Ryan, who was listening intently to Willow’s explanations. He was probably the best option, really; as the Council had likely assumed. He was nice, and intelligent, and might not completely flip when he learned that Buffy’s friendship with Spike was romantically inclined.

Still, the idea filled her with exhausted dread. She already had to be the Slayer again. Now she was going to have to deal with a strange Watcher on top of everything else?

When Willow led them into a lush and modern conference room, Buffy turned to her before the witch could make her exit. “How does the Watcher process happen?”

Willow laughed slightly, her green eyes warming. “That’s the exciting part, I know.”

Not exactly the adjective Buffy was thinking of.

“It’ll, um, really be up to you,” Willow continued, clasping her arms together at her elbows.

“So I get to choose?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Willow gave her a reassuring smile. “We make sure Slayers have a mentor/trainer who works for them. Usually, the Slayer chooses a Watcher she knows from her area, like Ryan for you, but sometimes not.” Willow motioned back out toward the workspaces. “Most any Watcher on staff is prepared to take on a Slayer if asked. Let me know if you have any personality type or skill type you’re looking for, and we can get you options.”

“Okay.” Buffy tried to look enthusiastic despite the roiling pit that her stomach had become, the look freezing as she realized it was exactly what she’d done after she’d come back from the dead the second time. And—if Willow's unflagging smile was any indicator—the lie was as effective now as it had been then. Or maybe Willow just saw only what she wanted to see. But even Willow hadn't been able to ignore her friend burning to death right in front of her, and there was a kind of petty pleasure in the fact that turned Buffy's smile true. “Thanks.”

When Willow left them alone in the room, Ryan gave her a small, wry smile as he reached for a pastry from the massive tray left for them on the conference table. “Don’t worry, being your potential Watcher wasn’t all the reason they brought me here. It’s also a good learning opportunity.”

Buffy bit her lip as she slid into a chair next to Spike. Inevitably, the vampire was sprawled lazily in his own chair, his boots thrown up onto one end of the table like he owned the place.

“So if I don’t choose you…”

Ryan hesitated, running a hand through his short beard in clear discomfort. “Honest answer?”

Buffy raised a brow. “Definitely go with honest.”

“Honestly, while it’d be a great honor…” He looked at her a bit sheepishly. “I like working at the dojo. And apocalypse chasing isn’t really high up on my list of favorite things. But,” he continued firmly, “if you’d like me to work with you, I would of course say yes.”

A warm swell of gratitude swept through her. “I really appreciate that,” she said softly.

Ryan looked at her knowingly. “But?”

“But I’m not about to drag anyone into life-threatening situations and the pretty solid guarantee of a short lifespan if it’s not what they want.”

She saw Spike’s jaw tighten and knew he was thinking the same thing she was: that enough of that had already happened to her.

Ryan nodded and sat, his shoulders clearly easing in relief. She realized then that he had been sure it was his fate to turn into the Slayer’s Watcher and he hadn’t said a word until now. Her respect for the Watcher went up another notch.

But that still left her completely at a loss for what to do.

Frowning, Buffy grabbed one of the available muffins and picked at it anxiously, nearly jumping out of her skin when Spike’s hand slid stealthily across her thigh beneath the table.

“It’ll be alright, luv,” he murmured lowly, his expression grimly determined.

“Not sure how,” she muttered. “The only way it would be even remotely okay would be if you…” Her voice trailed off, eyes widening.

“Slayer?”

Buffy swallowed, desperate, epiphanal hope rising in her. “Spike, you–”

Her sentence was interrupted as the conference door swung open again.

Apparently it was the day of the twenty-year reunions because, this time, Wesley Wyndam-Price stood in the doorway. Unlike Willow, he had—if anything—lost weight in the last two decades, and looked absolutely nothing like the uptight freshman Watcher she remembered. He was dressed almost hyper-casually in jeans and a simple dark blue turtleneck, and he was sporting a short beard very similar to Ryan’s. Spike really hadn’t been kidding when he’d said Buffy might not recognize the man.

“Ah, you’re all here,” was Wesley’s somewhat dry opening. His eyes found Buffy and she felt him scrutinize her heavily for a long moment. She held his gaze unflinchingly, to his apparent satisfaction. “Miss Gallagher. It’s a pleasure. I’m Wesley.”

“You look more like hell every year, Oxford,” Spike drawled easily, leaning back in his chair, his hands thrown behind his head.

To Buffy’s surprise, Wesley just barked out a humorless laugh. “It’s amazing what several decades of continued insomnia will do to a fellow.” His mouth twisted as he regarded Spike. “The mortal kind, that is.” Then he plastered on a smile that was worse than the one Buffy had managed to muster for Willow and turned back to her. “Miss Gallagher, if it’s alright with you, I’d like a few minutes of your time.”

Buffy hesitated until she caught Spike’s subtle, encouraging nod. “Okay.”

“Pardon us, gentlemen.” Wesley didn’t say anything else until they’d left the room and ascended some back staircase into a spacious, glass-walled office. The interior was coated in a mishmash of weird artifacts, messy piles of scrolls, and modern paperwork.

“You’ll have to pardon me,” he said as he slid into his desk chair, “I’m not much of one for small talk these days.”

Buffy sank into the visitor’s chair with a wry smile. “So you and Spike are basically oil and water.”

Wesley snorted, mirroring her expression. “He does do an admirable job of making me want to throttle him.”

“Join the club. We can make t-shirts."

Wesley gave a small laugh and sat forward, steepling his hands on the desk. His gaze was piercing and haunted. Nothing at all like the quailing, quivering man she remembered. “So. How long have you been together?”

Buffy froze. Oh crap. Had they been that obvious? Clearing her throat, she managed a biting and entirely unconvincing, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Wesley's mouth curved into a strangely bitter smile as he leaned back in his chair. “It may come as a surprise to you, Miss Gallagher, but I am no stranger to the oddly paired romance.”

Buffy swallowed. “I heard about the hell god.”

“Illyria, yes.” Wesley’s gaze grew distant as he looked at the ceiling. “She destroyed the love of my life. And yet… well, perhaps not entirely, as it turns out.” He grimaced and reached for a bottle of whisky sitting at the edge of his desk, pouring it into a nearby tumbler. “Results have been inconclusive. But, regardless, Illyria and I have become… companionable over the years.” He lifted the whisky bottle her way. “A drink?”

“Um. No thank you.” Buffy drew in a cautious breath. “What makes you think Spike and I are… together?” 

Wesley downed his whisky and then rested the glass in his fingers, examining it almost studiously as he turned it in a slow rotation. “William the Bloody has done everything short of dusting to avoid interacting with Slayers. In the recent era, at least.” He looked up at her, arching a brow. “I assume you’ve heard the story of Buffy Summers.”

Buffy trained her face into neutrality, trusting herself only to nod.

“She was a remarkable Slayer,” Wesley said softly, looking back down at his glass. A small, rueful smile crossed his face. “I had the pleasure of working with her once, but I’m afraid I didn’t entirely appreciate her skills at the time.” He pursed his lips. “But that’s really beside the point. The point is that—in the twenty years I’ve known Spike—he’s never once agreed to go anywhere near the vicinity of a Slayer. And never once have I heard of him befriending even a Potential, and certainly not one befriending him in return.” He turned his sharp gaze back on her. “Which stands to reason then that you’re not like the others.”

If he only knew. Buffy lifted her chin, defiance making her gaze steely. “I told you that I know my job, and I do. My private life is none of your business."

Wesley grimaced. “Did you know that you’re the oldest Slayer who's been called since my tenure as Director? The next oldest to you was sixteen—a child still, initially. In fact, it doesn't appear there's been a Slayer Called at your age since 1947.” He sighed. “It will take some getting used to, interacting with a Slayer who is an adult at the outset. Not a bad thing, you understand. But different. In my surprise, I fear I didn’t treat you as you are during our first conversation.”

“Is that supposed to be an apology?”

Wesley’s eyes crinkled at the corners as his lips curved into a small smile. “Yes, I guess it is. Poorly done, wasn’t it?” He said up straighter. “You have my sincere apologies, Miss Gallagher.” He paused. "I will be frank. Much of my initial... worry was due to another Slayer-vampire romance that I was privy to."

Buffy nearly startled in surprise. Was he talking about her and Angel? "Oh?"

"Yes. With Buffy Summers again, actually. She seemed to attract vampires in a most unusual way." Wesley was staring down at his glass again and missed Buffy's discomfited expression. "It was a doomed and dangerous romance. Miss Summers was young and Angel was..." Wesley's lip curled. "Well, the less said about Angel the better." He looked back up at her. "But if there's one thing I like immensely about Spike, it's that he's nothing at all like Angel. And you are not Buffy Summers."

"No," Buffy said quietly, "I'm not." She took a deep breath. “So, Spike and I?”

He gave her a wry look. “All my concern aside, Miss Gallagher, I’m really in no position to judge anyone for their choice in lovers.” His face darkened and he poured himself another glass of whisky. “Or anything else.” When he’d downed the amber liquid again, he motioned around the office. “After a great evil destroyed most of the existing Council network and infrastructure twenty years ago, Ms. Rosenberg and I rebuilt it as a sort of redemption for our personal sins. But the truth is, we’ll never be redeemed. Choices cannot be unmade and consequences never undone.” He nodded toward her, his expression softening. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t try.”

Despite her best efforts, Buffy found herself entirely failing to connect this cynical, yet aspiring figure with the pompous junior Watcher she’d once known. Like her, he seemed to have shed his previous skin. “We can always try,” she agreed softly.

 

***

 

The rest of the afternoon was spent under a pile of technical paperwork—explanations of benefits and insurance and a whole heap of things that she would have killed for as Buffy Summers, including an annual salary. For a long minute, Buffy couldn’t do anything but stare at the direct deposit request form and the number written at the bottom of it. $48,000. Per year.

It was only when Spike’s hand brushed her shoulder that Buffy realized she was silently crying. The vampire didn’t say anything; he just stood there, a comforting, tingling presence against her skin and supernatural senses.

“Did you have anything to do with this?” she managed finally.

“No, luv. It’s standard for all the Slayers these days.”

“Willow?”

“Believe so.”

Buffy stroked the paper softly, part of the tight, furious anger simmering beneath the surface of her skin uncoiling. “That’s…” But words failed her.

Spike’s hand squeezed her shoulder a bit tighter. “I know, Slayer.”

 

***

 

By the end of the day, Buffy was dead on her feet from jetlag and emotional exhaustion, even with the enhanced endurance of Slayerhood. And yet still, the constant prickle of her Calling invaded almost every moment with the grim certainty of the future and her duty.

When she, Spike, Ryan, Willow, and Wesley were gathered in the conference room wrapping up, she couldn’t help but ask: “Are we going to talk about Cairo?”

Next to her, Spike stiffened in his seat.

Wesley just nodded. “Tomorrow. It’ll take some time to go over.”

“It’s part of the mission prep,” Willow added, pointing at the itinerary for tomorrow. Then she smiled, her face lighting up with almost childlike excitement. “And we can discuss Watchers then, too.”

Apparently, Willow’s matchmaking tendencies were still in full swing. Those had always gone oh so well.

Buffy swallowed, shooting Spike a quick, furtive glance. Hopefully he’d forgive her for this. “Actually, I already have someone in mind.”

Willow straightened eagerly. “Oh?”

Here went nothing. “I want Spike as my Watcher.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People are complex, as are situations. I hope I've done justice to our characters and their faults and virtues here.


	17. Going Where No Vampire Has Gone Before

The silence was thunderous. Buffy sat up straighter, not daring to look at the stock-still vampire next to her, very aware that she might’ve just crossed a big line with the Slayer of Slayers through this unexpected recommendation.

Willow’s face scrunched up. “Meg, Spike’s not a Watcher.”

Buffy took a deep breath. “No, he's not. But he knows Slayers. He can train me, protect me… and he knows a bunch about demons, and several languages...” She faltered, her unease rising at Spike’s continued statue impersonation.

There was another beat of terrifying silence, then Spike roused beside her with a rough, “Seventeen.”

Confused, Buffy chanced looking at the vampire, and saw everyone else doing the same. “I know seventeen languages,” he elaborated, pursing his lips. His eyes were glued to Wesley’s, and the men were trading some kind of wordless parries. “Six living human, three dead, eight demon. And a smattering of a dozen others.”

Willow’s frown turned severe. “That doesn’t make you ready to be a Watcher, though.”

Spike straightened in his chair, his voice gaining a clearly belligerent edge. “You want me to take the test for Watcherhood, Red? I’ll do it. I’ve _trained_ half your bloody Watchers.”

Relief flooded her. Whether Willow knew it or not, challenging Spike was the absolute best way to ensure that he’d buck authority—and probably his better sense—to support Buffy’s proposal.

Wesley was regarding Buffy steadily, unreadably. “That’s not the only issue at hand,” he said softly, with an underlying sharpness that left zero doubt about the issue to which he was referring.

Luckily, in a spare moment, she had already warned Spike that their relationship was out of the bag with Wesley, so Spike just shrugged, though his gaze was hard. “No matter where I stand with the Slayer in the future,” he said tersely, “it won’t change the fact that I’ll always do whatever I can to keep her alive.”

Buffy’s heart rose into her throat at the public promise—one, of course, that only she and Spike understood the real extent of.

Willow stared, clearly confused. Then her eyes widened and her gaze pinged quickly between Buffy and Spike. “You guys are an item?”

Ryan gave a small intake of breath from his position at Buffy’s left side, though he looked mostly unsurprised.

Well, apparently there was no point in continuing to try and keep the world’s worst kept secret. “We are,” Buffy admitted.

Willow sat back in her seat. “Oh, goddess.”

Buffy swallowed. “Look. I’ve only known Ryan for about a month. I’ve known Spike for years. I know him and I trust him with my life. Not to mention, the way I understand it, he was super vocal when the Council reformed, laying out what could help Slayers live longer lives. If that doesn’t make him good Watcher material, I don’t know what does.” She glanced at Spike, who was again in some kind of silent staring contest with Wesley. “If our romance goes down the drain, so be it, but Spike has been my... my ally since long before that. His staying power’s not a question.”

Something flashed across Willow’s face, her expression softening considerably as she looked at Spike. “No, it’s not.” She gave Buffy a wry, apologetic look. “Yours sort of is, though.”

Sudden, instinctive offense burned in Buffy’s chest, but she quickly tamped it down. Spike’s steadfastness was well-tested; Meg Gallagher was a complete unknown. Sure, she was the Slayer but, to everyone except Spike, she was still completely untried—yet to make any of the hard decisions that were inevitably part of the Chosen One’s everyday existence. For all they knew, one good heartbreak would turn Meg suicidal. Or evil. And, unfortunately, Willow and Wesley both knew the sober reality of what happened when a Slayer fell off the white hat wagon.

Still, there was some kind of complete weirdness in Spike having better credibility than her in the do-gooder category.

“Spike’s a soulless demon,” she said softly, “but he’s been batting for your team for a long time now. I can’t guarantee he’d choose the world saving gig over saving me–”

“Because I wouldn’t,” Spike cut in sharply.

Buffy gave him a ‘you’re not helping’ look, then continued, “But I can guarantee that if I do anything stupid or anything that goes over that nice line from light to dark—anything that dishonors the memory of Buffy Summers and what she believed in—then Spike will be the first one kicking me unapologetically back into place, so that I keep saving the world like I’m supposed to.”

Spike’s lips twitched slightly, but he managed a solemn, “I’ll always be Buffy’s bitch that way.”

Willow and Wesley traded meaningful looks. Finally, Wesley turned an evaluating gaze on her. “You have an incredibly solid head on your shoulders, Miss Gallagher.”

“Thanks. I aim to keep it there as long as possible,” Buffy said dryly.

Willow giggled slightly, then slapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she said, looking abashed. “I shouldn’t laugh about that. It’s just…” She fixed Buffy with a speculative look. “I haven’t heard that brand of morbid humor in a while.”

Oh, crap. Not even a day in and she was already giving herself away.

“I can see why Spike likes you,” Willow continued softly. She lifted a brow in Spike’s direction.

“Can’t help it,” he drawled, with what Buffy knew had to be manufactured ease. “I know what I like.”

Buffy tapped a tired finger on the table. “So,” she said wearily, “Spike as my Watcher?”

“Yes, on a trial basis,” Wesley said placidly. “Provided that Spike is willing to undergo the necessary preparation regimen.”

Spike’s expression soured. “Not going to make it easy for me, are you?”

Wesley turned a roguish, cat-ate-the-canary kind of half smile on him. “You’re making history, Spike. The first vampire Watcher in history. I would be entirely remiss not to make the most of this opportunity.”

Spike sighed. “Bugger. Figured you might see it that way.” He glanced over briefly at Buffy, his blue eyes filled with resigned affection. “You’re nothing but trouble, Slayer. You know that?”

Buffy smiled wryly at him. “Good thing you’re a fan of trouble.”

“Bloody convenient for you, at least.”

“Very,” Buffy agreed easily.

From across the table, Willow was watching them with a strange look on her face, though she didn’t say anything else except to wish them good night, and to promise that she’d have preliminary itineraries ready for Ryan and Spike in the morning.

 

***

 

“Do you think Willow suspects anything?” Buffy asked, as she and Spike were walking down the sidewalk toward their hotel. It was a hefty walk after an incredibly long day, but neither of them had even considered getting into the cab with Ryan. Not when a few quiet moments for honest conversation were far more necessary.

“Doubt it,” Spike said after a moment’s thought. “Likely she just thinks I’ve got a solid type these days.”

“Well, she wouldn’t exactly be wrong.”

“Except my type is  _you_. Not just some bint who is a bit like you.”

Buffy eyed the vampire next to her, who had lit a cigarette and was now pulling out a long, tense drag. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you about the Watcher thing.”

Spike snorted, looking at her sideways. “Bit brassed at you for that, not gonna lie.” His lip curled in faint disgust. “If I didn’t need to turn in my demon card before, this’ll be the clincher.”

Her stomach dropped in disappointed resignation. “You don’t have to do it. You can still say no.”

Spike growled softly. “Don’t be daft.” His expression turned combative. “But if they try to stuff me into anything tweed, you’d better believe the Council is going to be a few hands short directly after.”

“I’ll be sure to warn the masses.”

Spike gave her an exasperated look, then shook his head and flicked his cigarette away, his attention scattering to their immediate surroundings. “So, luv, what say you to ending the day with a bit of rough and tumble?”

She couldn’t help but nod vehemently. Her muscles had been jittery since before they’d boarded the plane. All the anxious, low desire for a fight that had lurked as a Potential was nothing at all compared to the constant hum of battle lust that now invigorated her limbs. And, in general, a nice slay sounded like perfect stress relief after a very long two days. “I’m exhausted, but I’m not sure I’d be able to sleep without a good fight,” she murmured. “I don’t remember it being so strong last time—at first, anyway.”

Spike regarded her thoughtfully. “Senses seem awfully honed for a new girl, too.”

“They are,” Buffy agreed. “When I was first Called last time, my vampire sensors were awful. Giles was pretty appalled.” She took a deep breath of cool night air. “It feels like… well, like I still have the Slayer senses I had when I died last time, if not even a little better.”

“Suppose it stands to reason, pet, with you being stuck as the Slayer and all. It’s prolly the same essence you’ve always had, sitting in your body waiting for another Call.”

“Apparently.” The thought was strangely reassuring. She’d worked damn hard to gain the supernatural senses she’d had by the end of her life as Buffy Summers, including months of advanced meditative training with Giles. Her breath hitched with the thought. “Spike… while we’re in England, can we do something?”

He lifted a brow. “Want to be more specific on the ‘something’?”

“I want to go see Giles.”

Spike halted mid-step, turning to her in surprise. “Oh?”

“I think he could help figure out this eternal mystical replay situation.”

“Pull the other one, luv. It’s got bells on.”

“Huh?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Don’t even try to sell me on that being the reason, Slayer. Plenty of other powerful magic-doers and researchers to look into the issue, as I believe you told me before. And there’s Wil, too—even if you don’t want to bring it up, she’s still ground zero.”

Damn perceptive vampire. Buffy sighed a bit guiltily. “I think I’ll have to tell Willow eventually. Just… I can’t yet, okay?”

Although, the way their secret-keeping was going, ‘yet’ was probably going to be sooner rather than later, whether she liked it or not.

“So, Rupes?”

Buffy winced. “I hate the idea that I’m responsible for Giles’s hermit-ness. And I… I miss him. I know it’s selfish and stupid, but it feels wrong being the Slayer without him being around.” She looked over at her quiet vampire. “Do think it’d be better if I just leave him alone?”

Spike reached over and brushed a wayward curl of hair from her face, his expression soft. “Watcher loves you like a father, Buffy. Knowing you’re alive will prolly be the best moment of his life.”

“Exaggeration much?”

Spike gave her a look of solemn irritation. “Told you before that seeing you alive again has been the best moment of my life—twice. Stands to reason it’ll be the same for him.”

Buffy deflated helplessly, the sudden memory of Giles seeing her again after her resurrection—looking at her like she was a miracle—flooding her vision. “How am I supposed to argue with you?”

Spike smirked at her, looping an arm around her waist and tugging her close. “You’re not. Now let’s go find some beasties to pulverize before bedtime so that you can have a proper Slayer induction in Merry Old.”

It didn’t take them long to come across said beasties—apparently, a city as old as London was just teeming with them. And fighting now was as easy as breathing, Buffy realized as she ducked a series of enraged punches by a furious and—she suspected—slightly drunk pair of Kailiff demons. Tossing out a heavy right hook, she broke several of one of the demon’s protruding head knobs.

“Nice one, luv,” Spike called from the sidelines, letting her have her solo fun, in what was turning out to be a major Sunnydale flashback. Unlike Potential Meg, Slayer Meg could easily take a punch or ten and still come up swinging. Her body had become less breakable and her attacks more so.

It felt unbelievably good.

When at last the Kailiffs lay dead at her feet, an only slightly bruised Buffy flipped her hair away from her face, panting and grinning as she turned back to her vampire. He was eying her with an intensity that would’ve been frightening had it come from anyone not Spike. As it was, the shiver that ran up her spine had a decidedly friendlier inclination.

“Christ,” he growled, prowling toward her. “You’re magnificent.”

Buffy gave him an innocent look. “You’ve seen me fight dozens of times in this body.”

“Not like this,” he said huskily, his blue irises so swallowed by widened pupils that they looked black. “You’re gorgeously lethal, pet.”

“Actual Slayer here again. Sort of in the job description.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed and a low rumble vibrated through his chest. “Minx.” He smashed his lips against hers, his tongue insistently tangling with hers as a hint of his fangs lightly nicked her mouth. To her surprise, Spike immediately shuddered and drew back, a small bead of her blood on his lips.

“Spike?”

He shook his head, slowly licking the blood away. “Slayer blood,” he provided finally, his eyes glinting gold as he stared at her lips again with pure, predatory hunger. “Forgot how…” He trailed off. “Just forgot.”

Buffy frowned at him. “Is that a bad thing?”

He gave another small shiver. “God, no.”

She fingered the scars on her neck—his scars. “So if I let you bite me now, you wouldn’t get all bloodlusty and almost kill me?”  _Like Angel_ , she wanted to add, but didn’t. That was ancient history; different body, way different vampire.

Spike’s gaze snapped up to her eyes, looking astonished. “You’d… you’d let me bite you again?”

A flush overtook her cheeks. “Probably.”

She sort of expected a smug leer, but Spike just looked awed. “I wouldn’t ever take much,” he promised lowly.

“Good. Because I’m pretty sure that would be a big Watcher faux pas.”

Spike grimaced as he reached for her again, tugging them into motion on the sidewalk. “Still can’t believe I’m going to become a sodding Watcher.”

Buffy grinned, nuzzling into his shoulder as they walked. “Just imagine Giles’s face when he hears.”

“He’s going to think the lot of them have completely lost the plot.”

“Probably.” Buffy paused. “So we’ll go find him while we’re here?”

“No need to find him, Slayer. I know where he is. Even have the address for his little Bath ivory tower floating around somewhere. We can take a train out there one night this week.”

“Thank you.”

 

***

 

The new Council Headquarters was in a London neighborhood called Shoreditch (on the incredibly Watchery-sounding Wenlock Road), which had apparently been a mecca of theatre and music when Spike had been human, but was now some kind of up-and-coming technology belt filled with what Spike scathingly called ‘blitheringly idiotic hipster types.’ The hotel Willow had set them up in was a full representation of Spike’s claims, and he practically glowered at the random bicycles mounted on the wall near the entryway.

Hiding a grin, Buffy shoved him into the elevator once they had checked in. “Cheer up, sourpuss.”

Spike gave her a dirty look. “It’s fucking  _trendy_.”

“And god forbid the undead punk rocker gets seen in a place like this?”

“Bloody right,” he grumbled, following her into the hall as their elevator dinged to the appropriate floor.

Buffy slipped the room key card into their door. “Need I remind you that your reputation is non-existent these days?” She paused as they entered the room and shut the door, raising a brow. “And that Pittsburgh is  _filled_  with hipsters?”

Spike eyed her warily. “Not planning on becoming one, are you?”

“A hipster?”

“Yeah.”

“Not so far, but don’t tempt me.”

He flashed fangs at her. “You start wearing flannel and you’ll need a new wardrobe.”

Buffy lost the fight against a giggle as she sprawled backward on the bed. It was a really, really nice bed, in what was actually a really nice room. Score one for the new Council (and, most likely, Willow’s tastes).

Spike stripped off his duster and eyed the long, low bookshelf next to the bed. Every shelf was filled with records, and his fingers twitched as he surveyed them. Buffy grinned at him, nodding toward the record player sitting on the top. “Pick one out.”

He pursed his lips. “It’s probably all alternative coffeehouse rot.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Then put on the least rotty one.” She formed her mouth into a pout, very pleased that it seemed as effective on Spike in this body as it had been in her old one. “Because I want a naked vampire in my bed like now.”

Spike’s eyes darkened. “Well, when you put it like that…” He strode over to the shelf and scanned it intently for a moment before decisively pulling out a record and setting it to play.

“That didn’t take long,” Buffy said with faux-surprise.

“Had some incentive,” Spike said dryly. His gaze flicked back briefly to the record player and the low key, cymbal-heavy opening of some song whose band seemed vaguely familiar. “And the Strokes are pretty good.”

“Know what else is good?”

“What?”

Buffy pulled off her shoes and wiggled out of her pants. “Nakedness.”

Spike smirked at her. “Slaying made you hot, did it?”

“Like it didn’t with you.”

Spike made short work of his clothes and crawled up the foot of the bed toward her, his erection proudly bobbing. “You’ve always made me hot,” he growled.

Desire rose heavy in her lower belly as Spike covered her with his weight, tugging off her shirt and bra as he went.

“Wanna shag you into the ground, my firebrand,” he told her flatly.

“I feel like the Council would not be happy with that kind of hotel bill,” Buffy managed breathlessly.

Spike rolled his eyes. “Don’t really give a damn.”

“I am  _not_  explaining a trashed hipster hotel to Willow and Wesley.”

Chuckling, Spike sat up, pulling her with him and turning her on to her hands and knees. His fingers stroked her ass cheeks in just the way that made all of the sensitive nerves come alight, sending white hot pleasure arcing straight to her clit. “Guess I’ll have to put more of the force against you instead then,” he told her, in a dark voice that made her nipples tighten.

She licked her lips, looking over her shoulder. Spike was stroking his cock with slow purpose, his face in its demon guise as he eyed her hungrily. “Do your worst.”

His chest rumbled in unfairly sexy agreement as he pulled Buffy back by her hips. He used the tip of his cock to rub her juices around her outer lips before plunging inside her, to her gasping mewl. Her fingers dug into the comforter as she braced, clenching her internal muscles.

“Bloody fuck,” was Spike’s slightly lisped swear as he pulled back against the assault, only to thrust in again a moment later. One of his hands banded around her hip and the other reached in front to caress her clit, wringing a helpless whimper from her. Between Spike’s swirling fingers and his cock thrusting into her with a steady, hard pace, she was soon on the edge of flying apart, her limbs quivering and her stance nearly buckling.

“Spike, oh god.”

“Let go, luv.”

“No,” she gasped stubbornly. “I want more.”

There was a slight pause, then Spike hauled her up so that her back was pressed against his chest. His hands slid up to pinch her nipples, leaving her panting and arching against him. His thrusts gentled, his hips rolling against her as he pressed nipping kisses up her shoulder and neck, laving the marks he’d previously left. Had that really only been two days ago?

The pinprick of fangs against her skin wiped all musings away, and she exploded into orgasm as Spike sank into her jugular. She clenched helplessly against his cock as the familiar sensation of heavenly rapture dimmed every sensation.

Unlike Potential Meg, Slayer Meg thankfully didn’t pass out, and Buffy woozily exhaled as Spike withdrew his fangs from her, his own body shuddering into orgasm. For a long moment, neither of them moved, both panting heavily.

“Christ, Buffy,” Spike muttered.

She let her head loll to the side, against Spike’s shoulder. “Do I taste better now?”

He gave her reopened mark a fervent, open-mouthed kiss that made her entire body tremble. “Like bloody ambrosia.” He looked at her with worried eyes, blue again in his human guise. “Might want to cover up the mark tomorrow before we head back to the Watchers.”

“They already know I’m dating you, Spike. That cat was apparently never in the bag all that super well.”

Spike shifted her off his lap and pulled them both prone on the bed before wrapping his arms around her again. “That’s not the same as me biting you, pet.”

“You do remember my whole spiel about the fact that I’ve never let the Council tell me what to do and am not about to start now, right?”

Spike laughed lowly. “I remember.”

“Mkay, good. Because it still stands.” A mischievous smile curved Buffy’s lips as she snuggled against his chest. “And that’s one more thing that will make you a good Council employee.”

“Come again?”

“I’ve never let you tell me what to do, either.”

She could practically hear Spike’s scowl. “Don’t know how I ever worried about you not being you, you infuriating chit.”

“Because you’re a dope,” Buffy told him seriously, through a yawn.

“Yeah, well, I’m your dope,” was Spike’s soft reply.

“Definitely mine,” she agreed sleepily, falling into slumber to the sound of Spike’s sudden, rumbling purr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t make up a single thing about the hotel. I swear. It’s real and it’s a hipster paradise.


	18. Girl Talk

Wesley—who apparently still retained at least one of his old habits—started off their meeting the next morning with an incredibly long lecture about the history of Cairo, which Buffy admittedly only half-listened to despite her best intentions.

“Wesley,” she finally interrupted, as he went on about the reasons for a decrease in trade in the fifteenth century, “I’m sure this is super interesting, but can we please cut to the impending apocalypse portion of things?”

Wesley sighed and glanced over at Willow. “Just once, I’d like there to be a Slayer with an appreciation for historical context.”

“Keep dreaming, Oxford,” Spike said with a snort, his feet again thrown up on the end of the conference table despite Willow’s look of extreme disapproval. “It’s not how the chits are made.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Buffy agreed cheerfully. “So, Cliff notes me, Jeeves.”

Wesley gave her a long-suffering look that would’ve made Giles proud. “You’re going to be a troublemaker, aren’t you?”

“Are you really surprised?”

Wesley’s lips twitched. “Considering your association with Spike? Not in the least.”

Spike slapped a hand over his heart with lazy drama. “I think I’m offended. Don’t blame me for her redheaded tendencies.”

That earned him a simultaneously indignant “Hey!” from both Willow and Buffy.

"Regardless," Wesley continued, clearly trying to steer them back on track, “if you want the condensed version of the situation…”

“I do,” Buffy said emphatically.

“Very well.” Wesley’s disappointment was nearly palpable.

“Upside of having me for a Watcher, pet,” Spike murmured, with a grin. “I won’t talk your ear off about boring shite.”

Buffy lifted a brow. “Why do you think I picked you?”

“Not for my sharp wit and devilishly good looks?”

“No, that’s just why Wesley puts up with you, as I understand it.”

“Wes has sense enough to know a brilliant bloke when he sees one.”

“Sadly, he missed the mark completely with you.”

Wesley stared at them. “Good god,” he muttered to Willow, “it’s like watching a tennis match.” He cleared his throat severely. “If you’re both done for the moment.”

“For the moment,” Spike agreed amiably, leaning back in his chair and crossing his hands in front of his chest.

At Buffy’s nod, Wesley steepled his hands on the table, clearly transitioning back into lecture mode. “The ancient Egyptians, who inhabited what is now the area of present-day Cairo, were potentially the first human society to have forged a direct connection with a hell dimension, which they called Duat. They regarded it as an underworld, a place for the dead, and it is believed that their priests could open doorways to this dimension, where they would leave offerings or sacrifices. Some of their most sacred texts, like the Book of the Dead, contain the remnants of their spells to do so.”

Buffy frowned. “Okay. And why do we care about this hell dimension right now?”

“Because, very recently, a resurrected sect of this priesthood attempted to open the portals again to gain access to a very powerful demonic artifact. However, they…” Wesley frowned. “Well, we don’t know exactly what went poorly, except that the situation escaped their control.”

“Ah, inept bad guys. Always a good time.” When Willow gave her a confused look, Buffy quickly added, “You know, that never turns out well on TV. You’d think real life guys would know better.”

“Yes, well…” Wesley’s expression grew grimmer. “As it was, we heard of this endeavor too late to prevent the ritual, and several creatures from Duat slipped into our realm. However, the Slayer…” He paused, his gaze clouding. “That is, the previous Slayer–”

“Nadine,” Willow interrupted, looking just as somber. “Her name was Nadine. Nadine Hamila.”

Buffy swallowed as a rush of emotion tightened her throat. “Nadine. I won’t forget.”

Willow looked at her with a wan, grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“Nadine,” Wesley continued softly, “and her team were able to close almost all the portals, but at great personal cost.”

Spike sat up in his chair, his relaxed demeanor exchanged for a narrow blue gaze and tensed frame. “What did them in?”

Willow bit her lip. “A very powerful demon called Ammit, which is, literally, 'The Devourer.' She's also known as the Demoness of Death and the Eater of Souls.”

Buffy grimaced. “Classy.”

Willow pushed an iPad to the center of the table, and Buffy leaned forward to stare at what looked to be a hieroglyphic rendering. She studied it for a long moment then raised her eyes, wrinkling her nose.

“It looks like a bipedal alligator.”

A small smile quirked Wesley’s lips. “It’s what the ancient Egyptians could imagine as the most formidable kind of man-eater. The head of a crocodile, the forelimbs of a lion, and the hind limbs of a hippopotamus.”

Spike snorted. “Guessing our real bint isn’t quite so pretty.”

Willow scrunched up her nose. “Nope. Although she does have scales. And claws.”

Buffy glanced at the hieroglyph again. “And she’s loose in Cairo now?”

Willow shook her head. “Not exactly. The witch working with Nadine managed to halfway bind her to the hell dimension doorway—the last open portal—before she died.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “So the witch hobbled her.”

“And kept her from wreaking havoc on our dimension,” Wesley added.

“What’s that mean for us?”

But Buffy suddenly understood. “It means we have to stand in the doorway to get to her. And that she has to be killed or thrown back in hell before we can close the last portal. Right?”

Wesley’s face was grave. “Yes. Exactly right.”

Spike pursed his lips. “Sounds easy enough to off a chained demon, but I’m guessing it’s not. What’s the catch?”

Willow sighed. “Well, she’s chained to the doorway, but she has free reign within the portal itself. Your best bet is to kill her, because otherwise you’ll have to enlarge the portal opening enough to push her back in, and risk other demons spilling out.”

“Right. We’ll kill the crocodile demon then,” Buffy said decisively.

So far, it didn’t sound bad. Compared to a mostly impervious hell god, what was one measly demon? Except… this demon had apparently helped wipe out an experienced Slayer and her team.

Buffy nibbled her bottom lip. “What’s so dangerous about her?”

The table briefly fell silent, then Willow said simply, “She devours.”

“She absorbs human life force,” Wesley continued heavily. “So any considerable time within her presence spells most certain death.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Human life force? Then vamps aren’t affected?”

Wesley’s mouth parted in surprised realization, his gaze brightening. “No… I don’t suppose they are.”

Spike gave a feral grin. “Well, then. Guess yours truly is going to be on the front lines.”

Buffy froze, a spasm of panic rolling through her. “Is there any way to shield me against her draining effect?”

Willow looked uneasy. “Theoretically, yes, but we haven’t had a chance to test anything. Nadine didn’t… they didn’t discover Ammit’s presence until it was too late.”

“We’ll discuss more about tactics and team building this afternoon,” Wesley added. “For now, I think we could all use a break for lunch.”

 

***

 

When Buffy had Spike alone in a deserted hallway a few minutes later, she fixed him with a hard glare. “If you do anything even remotely related to dusting, I swear I’ll stake you myself.”

Spike regarded her with a soft, slightly amused expression. “Believe I told you something similar recently.”

“Yeah, well, I’m returning the favor.” Buffy poked him irately in the chest. “Got me?”

Spike laughed lowly and tugged her stiff form into his arms. “Yeah, luv,” he murmured, in a heady voice that sent a warm shiver running through her, “I got you.”

“You’re not allowed to leave me,” she reminded him, her face buried against his t-shirt as her fingers dug into his duster.

“Won’t leave,” he promised. He exhaled gustily. “Christ, I need a fag. I’m going to step out for a minute, alright, pet?”

Buffy regretfully detached her death grip. “Stay in the shade.”

He smirked and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. “I love you, Buffy.” Then, with a small smile, he turned and swept down the hall.

Buffy sighed, looking away from his retreating form just as Willow came around the corner, her eyes like saucers.

Uh oh.

“Meg, did Spike just call you ‘ _Buffy_ ’?”

So much for secrecy. Buffy winced, her shoulders slumping as her chest swirled with a hundred shades of dismay, anxiety, and relief. “Um. Yeah.”

But instead of Willow enacting any of the hundred reunion scenarios running through Buffy’s head, she just looked appalled. “Oh, sweetie… Has he done that before?”

Wait. What? Buffy scrunched up her nose in confusion. “… Yes?”

Willow’s lips pursed and stared off in the direction Spike had gone. “Damnit, Spike. So much for thinking you'd moved on."

Comprehension hit then. Willow didn’t know Meg was Buffy, she just thought Spike was using Meg as a Buffy replacement figure.

Buffy was suddenly, vividly aware of how very creepy the scenario probably looked from the outset. Buffybot level creepy, at minimum. Except with a live human. And now she was somehow going to have to defend it. God, life could not get any weirder. “It's just accidental,” Buffy said haltingly. “And I don't mind. He loved her a lot.”

Willow looked at her incredulously, sympathy filling her eyes. “Believe me, no one should have to play stand-in like that. It’s not fair to either of you.”

Curiosity had the question out of her mouth before she could stop it. “Personal experience?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

Buffy offered her a wry smile. “There’s not much I won’t believe.”

Willow chewed the bottom of her lip. “Want to get some lunch? There’s a really good pub not far from here where we can chat.”

Buffy hesitated only a moment. In all her years as Buffy Gallagher, she’d never had a friendship like what Buffy Summers had had with Willow. There’d been Emily for her high school years, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t giggling firsts and late night research sessions and hey-the-world-didn’t-end celebrations… and she really missed that kind of friendship. Except she hadn’t actually had that with Willow by the end, and never expected to start it up again.

But now, here was Willow, waiting with that familiar anxious but eager look on her slightly unfamiliar face. Of course, between the two of them, Buffy’s face was way winning the ‘doesn’t look like before’ award. In truth, neither of them was the same as before. Buffy wasn’t the Slayer newly ripped from heaven and lost in hell. Willow wasn’t her negligent young friend who thought her magic could do no wrong. Another sliver of resentment slipped away. “Okay. Just let me text Spike.”

Ten minutes later, they were holed up in the corner of the Narrowboat Pub, an unexpectedly airy restaurant edged against the Regent’s Canal, where cute little canal vessels literally called ‘narrowboats’ sailed up and down.

“This is one of my favorite spots to hide away,” Willow admitted, her fingers clasped around the stem of a glass of wine, clearly looking for something to say to this woman she thought she barely knew.

Buffy glanced around the narrow, breezy dining space. They were near the canal side, and had a perfect view of the water. “It’s really pretty.” She paused, a sudden, entirely weird realization striking her. “You’re a Londoner now.”

Willow blinked, her mouth curving into a surprised, slightly confused smile. “For decades. It’s a really great city.” Her smile fell and she stared intently down at her wine. “But no place was better than Sunnydale, where I’m from.”

Buffy's heart tugged at her, and she tried to look only casually curious. “Really? I hear it was a hellmouth. Lots of trouble.”

Willow’s mouth quirked up again. “Oh, yeah.  _Tons_  of trouble. But… I had the Scoobies, and that was... really special. Spike’s told you about the Scooby gang?” At Buffy’s nod, Willow smiled faintly and took a sip of wine. “So that was us. World savers just trying to make it through college. I mean, it was Buffy’s doing, really. She was the Slayer, and the whole reason all of us got together.” She took a shuddering breath. “And then Buffy died.”

 _Story of my life._  “Didn’t she die a lot?” Buffy asked dryly.

“Oh, well… yeah.” Willow winced. “But I meant the second time. She had to take a big ole swan dive off a tower. And it was my fault.”

Buffy stared at her, astounded and bewildered. “Your fault?” Was  _everyone_  going to blame themselves for her deaths?

Willow shrugged in resignation. “Yeah. I mean, I know Dawn—Buffy’s sister—blamed herself, but I was Buffy’s big guns. She trusted me to make a difference. And, when it came down to it, I was busy getting my girlfriend Tara back while she got… dead. I should have done something.” She shook her head, her eyes clouded with memory. “Everything after that turned pretty much to bad. I thought…” Her head bowed. “Well, I didn’t think very much. I resurrected my best friend.”

Buffy felt glued to her seat, all the old feelings of waking in her coffin rushing back with a vengeance. Her first sensation upon living again had been that of complete and wrenching loss, and for no reason that she could immediately remember. She’d been so empty, and everything had hurt. “So I’ve heard,” she managed.

“It was one spell. Just one,” Willow said miserably. “Which, you know, almost caused the end of the world. Pretty crazy, right?”

_If you only knew, Wil._

“And the worst part…” Willow looked like she wanted to cry, “is that I thought I’d done this great thing for Buffy, and it turned out I’d actually pulled her from heaven.  _Heaven_. And there was this dancing demon around town making people burn up. I  _know_  Buffy was strong enough to break that kind of hold. But she didn’t.”

Buffy swallowed, looking out the window toward the canal, unable to help but remember the exact feeling of the friction that had started at the bottom of her feet, burning through the soles of her boots and licking her skin with the tantalizing promise of death. “She let herself burn up.”

Willow shuddered. “It was awful. And Tara was so mad at me. And my first thought was to fix it, you know?”

Buffy snapped her gaze back to Willow, horrified and furious. “Bring her back again?”

Willow shook her head violently. “No! No, I would never have done that… again. I just… I wanted it to be okay.”

Buffy looked at her seriously. “Some things are just never going to be okay.”

Willow laughed humorlessly. “I figured that out, eventually. But, by that time, we were in the middle of stopping the First Evil from rising. And Tara… we were finally starting to see each other again, actually. And then she died in the last battle. Because of me.” Silent tears slid down Willow’s face, and her chin was trembling. “ _I_  killed the love of my life. Because of a stupid spell to bring Buffy back that I should never have done.”

Buffy stared at her ex-best friend, watching the hunched slope of her shoulders and the lines of anguished regret creased along her mouth, and felt the long hold of her anger break cleanly into a million pieces.

“Willow,” she said softly, “from what I know of Buffy… she would have forgiven you. Eventually. Maybe not for a long time, but she…” Buffy's throat tightened. “You were her best friend. She would have forgiven you.”

Willow gave a humorless hiccup of laughter, wiping her face with her napkin. “Maybe. But I don’t deserve it.”

A long ago conversation with Giles came back to her, from when she and Angelus had unwillingly recreated a murder-suicide with ghostly lovers. Buffy hadn’t been able to understand Giles’s perspective then—too caught up in right and wrong and teenage heartbreak—but she understood it now in sudden, blaring Technicolor. “We don’t forgive people because they deserve it. We forgive them because they need it.”

Willow stopped blotting at her face and looked sharply at Buffy, her brow furrowed and speculative. “You know… you’re the most mature nineteen-year-old I’ve ever met.”

“Old soul. Young body. It’s a double whammy package.”

Willow smiled slightly at that. “Must be.” She gave Buffy a rueful look. “You really do remind me of Buffy. I can see why Spike… yeah. I mean, it’s in no way okay but… I can see it.” She took a deep breath and straightened. “And I promise I wasn’t unloading all this Buffy guilt on you for no reason.”

“It’s okay.”

Willow shook her head. “No, I mean, I have a point. About your relationship.”

Oh boy. “Shoot.”

“So Tara died, right? Then Wesley and I rebooted the Council. And, in doing so, we started to bring in a lot of new people. Including witches.” Willow sighed. “And there was this one witch from Scotland… her name was Vivian. She was sweet and smart and”—Willow gave her a wry look—“the accent was really sexy, not gonna lie.”

Buffy laughed. “I know how that goes.” Stupid vampire with his stupidly attractive accent.

“So, anyway, Viv knew about Tara, and it wasn’t really a problem at all. At first.”

“What happened?”

Willow arched a brow. “Well, I called her ‘Tara’ on accident a couple times. But that was pretty much just the symptom. I didn’t see it until after the fact, but I didn’t actually bother to get to  _know_  Viv for everything that she was. I just paid attention to the traits that reminded me of Tara and then settled right in. When Viv eventually called me on it… well, I realized I couldn’t argue with her. Not shockingly, Viv broke up with me. As she should’ve.” Willow leveled a knowing gaze on Buffy. “It wasn’t fair of me to ask Viv to stand in for anyone else, and it wasn’t good for Viv to allow it for as long as she did just because she liked me. We both deserved more. Okay?”

Buffy grimaced internally. In any other situation, Willow’s wonderfully mature advice made sense. But right now… Buffy needed to somehow defend the live Buffybot scenario. Or reveal herself. And, while two decades of hatred-level anger and resentment had just shattered, everything now felt raw and exhausted. And after an already emotionally tense morning, dealing with Willow knowing Buffy was back from the dead yet again was just not within her capabilities. “I appreciate you worrying about me,” Buffy said slowly. “Really, I do. But I promise Spike isn’t treating me like a Buffy substitute. He knows who I am, and the things that make me…  _me_.”

Willow gave her a doubtful look but didn’t argue. She just nibbled on her bottom lip. “I’m here if you need anyone to talk to, okay? Being the Chosen One doesn’t mean you’re alone.”

Buffy gave her a warm, wan smile. “I know.”


	19. Return of the Stevedore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here! Sorry for the delayed posting, all. RL has been a bit rough lately and I had to say goodbye to one of my fur kiddos last week, so I needed a bit of emotional recovery time before writing again.

“Spike, I’ve been doing this wrong.”

Spike lifted a brow from where he was slouched against the wall, waiting for her just inside the Council HQ entrance. Willow had excused herself to prepare for the afternoon meetings as soon as they arrived back, pausing only to give Spike a hard look he thankfully hadn’t seemed to notice; his eyes were glued on Buffy.

“Guessing your lunch with Wil didn’t go so well, pet?” Spike’s brow furrowed. “Or it went rather well?”

“It was…” Buffy smiled faintly. “It was really good.”

“No chance of you offing Red anymore then, I take it?”

A small laugh escaped her. “No. You were right before when you said she’d paid her dues.”

Spike’s expression darkened. “Yeah, but not for this part of things,” he growled, motioning at her.

Buffy took a deep breath. “It doesn’t… this is just a side effect of the same thing.” She shook her head, trying to get back to her original point. “The thing is, Willow said something to me at lunch that really struck a chord.”

“Oh?”

“She said that being the Chosen One didn’t mean I was alone.”

Spike stared at her, looking incredulous and offended. “Well, of course you’re not bloody alone. You—the former you—is the entire reason the  _not alone_  concept is a sodding concept at all!”

“I know.  _I know_.” Buffy licked her lips. “But I started thinking about this team I’m supposed to build… and it hit me. What made the Scoobies win all the time, even when we shouldn’t have–”

“Did I mention that I’m still deeply ashamed to have been continually thwarted by you lot?”

Buffy fought a smile. “What made us win was that we knew each other and worked together. And all the times we didn’t—like when you started pulling us apart for Adam, and then after Willow brought me back—those are the times everything started collapsing.”

Spike cocked his head at her. “What’s your point, luv?”

“My point is… I told Willow that you know me.  _Me_  me. All the pieces. But… you’re the only one who does. How am I ever going to have an effective team if no one else knows me?”

Spike regarded her seriously. “Dunno, Slayer,” he said finally.

“Exactly.” She gave him a wry look. “So, are you going to tell me ‘I told you so’?”

“About?”

“How telling people is good.”

Spike affected his most innocent expression. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Uh huh.”

He grinned at her before sobering again. “So, you planning to spill the beans this afternoon to Wes and Wil?”

“Not yet. I need to do something first.” She waggled her brows. “Wanna play hooky with me?”

Spike’s expression blazed with curious interest. “Always. Don’t imagine that’ll go over well, though.”

“I mean, I’ll tell them I’m not coming.”

Spike shoved himself off from the wall. “Best not. I’ll text them when we’re gone.” Reaching for her elbow, he started steering them toward the door. “So, where’re we off to, pet?”

“We’re going to get Giles.”

 

***

 

It was a bit tricky getting Spike to the train station and on the train in sunny, early afternoon, but they eventually managed it with only minor vampire smoldering.

Once they’d settled into their seats and firmly drawn the curtains, Buffy captured Spike’s slightly singed hand—the one he’d used to keep his duster pulled over his head—in her own, running her thumb over his knuckles. “Are you going to be okay?”

Surprised amusement crossed his face. “Sweet of you to dote, pet, but this is nothing.”

“It’s just, you haven’t been eating much lately.”

He arched a brow. “Seem to recall I had a nice spot of Slayer blood last night. And Potential blood a couple nights before that.”

Buffy gave him a hard look. “You and I both know you didn’t take much.”

“With Slayer blood, don’t need much.” At her clearly frustrated expression, Spike sighed. “Look, luv, I know what you’re getting at.”

Buffy glared at him. “Do you? I need you  _strong_.” Her throat tightened. “We have to go face an ancient, life-sucking demon sometime in the near future, Spike, and I need my boyfriend not half starved.”

To her annoyance, a smile bloomed on Spike’s lips.

“I’m not kidding, you stupid vampire.”

“I know you’re not,” Spike said softly, smile never wavering. “Just…” His expression turned faintly embarrassed. “Apparently the novelty hasn’t worn off yet.”

“Yeah, well, if you don’t start eating well again, you’re going to find novelty in the idea of staying out of battle.”

Spike stiffened, his smile fading abruptly. “Just try and keep me away, Slayer,” he said dangerously. “Don’t believe you’ll find that working out nearly so well as you think.”

Buffy glared back at him. “I shouldn’t have to try!” A couple other train-goers glanced over at her volume and she winced before lowering her voice to an exasperated whisper. “What is going on with you? I’m pretty sure I flat out demanded you punch people a couple days ago. Did you forget that whole conversation?”

He swallowed and looked away from her, down at their still-intertwined hands. “I didn’t forget.”

“But you didn’t really believe me.”

He glanced up at her neck, to where his marks were hidden under her hair. “Oh, you got your point across, firebrand, don’t doubt that.”

“If I’d gotten my point across, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Spike’s jaw clenched and he looked away again, though not before she caught the fear in his eyes. “That was before you were Called.”

Buffy eyed him narrowly. “And? I didn’t suddenly turn into a different person three days ago, Spike.” She paused, then said lightly, “That process takes at least nineteen years.” When he still wouldn’t look at her, she sighed. It was apparently the serious conversation route for them today. “It was hard. I won’t lie.”

He finally looked at her, wary and tense.

“When you came to my dorm room. It was hard to trust you… us.” When his face shut down completely at that, she added, “But only for a second. All the old Slayer instincts had just rushed back, and they’re so strong now—maybe even a little stronger than before.” Even right this moment, her skin was buzzing with the sense of him, almost palpable, a background hum edged into her awareness. “I know you felt it too—that a piece of you recognized me as the Slayer. As the enemy.” Spike’s jaw was ticcing now and he actively tried to slide his hand from her grasp. She laid her other hand on top, trapping and holding his fingers with Slayer strength. “But do you know what I realized a second later?”

Spike’s nostrils flared and he didn’t answer for a long moment. “What?” he finally asked, low and hoarse.

“I realized that it didn’t matter.” Blue eyes bored into her. “Those instincts are just that. They're evolutionary  _things_  that exist to tell me about broad, sweeping danger. They don’t say a damn thing about individuals.” She lifted a brow. “And definitely nothing about you, He Who Drove Buffy Summers Crazy By Not Acting Like A Normal Vampire.”

A slow grin spread across Spike’s lips. “Normal’s boring as hell.”

“Having just lived a good portion of a lifetime as someone semi-normal, I can’t say that I’d call it ‘boring,’ but I might be convinced to call it… uninspired.”

Spike snorted, his fingers lacing more tightly with hers. “Oh, admit it, Slayer. You were bored out of your fucking skull. What did you say, that you dusted your first vamp at thirteen? Might as well’ve started in your cradle.”

“Lara and Paul would resent that remark. Mom and Dad drove me to about a million extra-curriculars over the years.” Her good humor faded. “I’m going to have to tell them, too. Soon. Once winter break rolls around, they’re going to figure out something is up. At minimum, the fact that their daughter suddenly quit college.” And that alone was likely to be a not fun conversation. Right along with,  _Hey Mom and Dad, looks like I’m going to die really young from fighting the forces of evil! Again. P.S. Stay away from monsters, mkay?_

Spike shifted in his seat and leaned closer, his forehead resting against hers. “They love you, Buffy. They’re not going to run you off. And I'll bite them if they so much as mention institutionalizing you." When that garnered him a weak laugh, he continued, "And the Council has a load of rot in place for keeping the Slayer’s folks safe. It’ll be alright.”

Anxiety churned in her stomach. “I’ll never live with myself if anything bad happens to them.”

A low growl reverberated against her skin. “It  _won’t_.” A pause. “I’ll grab a good bite once we get back from retrieving Rupes.”

She took a deep breath, swallowing down her sudden panic. “Good.” She bit her lip. “Spike?”

“Yeah, pet?”

“I love you.”

Spike's hands untangled from hers to slide up her neck and twine around her copper curls, then he swept her into a heavy, consuming kiss. When oxygen became a serious concern, he let her pull away and placed a soft peck on her nose while he reached into his duster pocket. She probably shouldn’t have been surprised when his hand returned clutching the small paperback copy of  _The Metamorphosis_  from the plane.

Buffy shook her head as she took it from his outstretched hand. “Stickler.”

Spike’s tongue curled behind his teeth. “You know me, luv, not about to miss an opportunity to stick it to you.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Mr. Professor, everyone.” But she obediently cracked open the novella as Spike settled back in his seat, a small smile on his lips.

 

***

 

Bath, England—home of a million fanciful Jane Austen-esque plots—was not nearly the rural sprawl Buffy had pictured. In fact, it was gorgeous and old… and heavily urban.

“It’s west west London, pet,” Spike told her in an amused, deprecating tone when she mentioned the fact.

Whatever that meant. She glanced around the airy train station. “So Giles is nearby?”

“South Stoke.”

“Uh… huh.”

“Just south of here, Slayer. We’ll take a taxi and be there in no time.”

Buffy glanced out toward the sky, where clouds were slowly draining away the afternoon sun, then back to where Spike was subtly gliding along in the shadows, a slight burn on his cheek from exiting the train. “Let’s hang out here for a little bit.”

Spike arched a brow. “In the railway station?”

“Well, it has the benefit of not rendering you into a pile of dust.”

Spike snorted, coming to stand by her as his gaze darted around the station. Despite his unaffected posture, he was following people’s paths with predatorial focus. “Yeah, I suppose there’s that.”

“Sorry for dragging you out in the middle of the day.”

Spike grinned. “I’m not.” He patted the duster pocket where his cell phone rested. After the tenth time Willow and Wesley had called, he’d just turned it off with a particularly devilish look. (Buffy had wisely turned hers off immediately.)

“How many kinds of upset do you think they are?”

His grin morphed into a satisfied smirk. “Oh, likely ten at least.”

“At least.” Buffy sighed, resting her head on Spike’s shoulder, her thoughts swirling. There were so many people to tell, and Giles—whether he liked it or not—was about to be number two on the identity reveal front. Thankfully, he was unlikely to strangle her like number one. And now at least she’d have Spike and Giles with her to tell Wesley and Willow. And then Dawn… Buffy swallowed. Before Meg had been Called, they’d made tentative plans to go see Dawn and her family in Alaska—apparently she and her husband were doing research up there. They’d meant to go post-holidays in January, with no real decision yet made on whether Buffy was going to reveal herself as more than Spike’s new girlfriend. Buffy had sort of planned to play it by ear. But now, with telling all the others, there was no way to  _not_  tell her sister.

“How am I going to tell Dawn?”

Spike eyed her curiously. “Same way you tell the others, I imagine.”

“No, I mean… Spike, she’s already watched me die twice. Right in front of her. And now that I’m the Slayer, chances are pretty stellar that I’m going to die before she does  _again_. How can I put her through that?”

Spike’s expression grew tight. “Well, first of all, you’re not going anywhere for a long bloody time. And second of all,” he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, “luv, the Bit’s made from you, remember? She’s all Summers steel and sass. Trust me, she’ll manage with things the same way you have.”

Buffy gave him a wry look. “By having you to help?”

Spike shifted to wrap his arms around her waist, nuzzling into her neck. “Oh no, Buffy,” he murmured, “you’ve got it all backwards. It’s me who’s had you both.”

 

***

 

In all the ways that the tourist-y metro of Bath had defied Buffy’s pastoral expectations, the small village of South Stoke lived up to them completely. The night-covered countryside was dotted with cream stone and brick cottages, each with their own small acre lots and wintered gardens. And, as Buffy determined when she and Spike climbed from their cab, Giles’s lot catered precisely to the norm, the space replete with a weathered cobblestone path and white-silled windows. Luckily, her ex-Watcher was clearly at home, as evidenced by the filtered yellow light peeking through the cottage windows and the smoke rising from the chimney.

Spike brushed her arm with his own as they stood beside the road. “Ready, Slayer?”

She found herself staring blankly at Giles’s black-painted front door. “God, I really have no idea.” She laughed slightly. “But that’s never stopped me before.”

“Not once, if memory serves.”

“Not once,” Buffy agreed. She straightened her shoulders and strode to the door, Spike matching her step-for-step. Pausing only a second, she reached out and rang the doorbell.

There was the sound of sudden movement from the inside—maybe a chair being pushed back—and then a moment later the door swung open, and there was Giles.

Intellectually, she’d known that Giles would look older—that he’d likely have wrinkles like Willow was starting to show, and that he’d be grey, like Wesley’s beard was starting to turn, and that he might not even be quite the same person anymore, like she wasn’t. But what she’d failed to realize was that not a single bit of it would matter.

“Yes?” Giles drew back as he caught sight of Spike, adjusting his unfamiliar-looking glasses. “Spike? Good heavens. What are you–”

But he never got to finish the sentence, because he very abruptly had a sobbing armful of Buffy wrapped around his neck, everything coherent in her turned entirely to mush. She realized belatedly that her sudden attack had caused the stake in Giles’s hand to clatter to the floor, and cried all the harder for it, clutching Giles’s brown sweater with near ripping force. He smelled exactly like she remembered, all musty book paper with the hint of some spicy cologne.

“Good lord,” he muttered as he staggered under her weight, stiffly embracing her to regain balance. “Spike,” he said in an aggrieved, weary tone, “I assume there is a perfectly good reason not only for you arriving at my doorstep out of the blue, but also for the sobbing woman currently hanging about my neck?”

“A perfectly good reason,” Spike echoed blithely. “Will you invite us in, Rupert?”

“As it seems half the party is inside already, I don’t suppose there’s much point in attempting to dislodge you,” Giles said dryly, the tone making Buffy hiccup with laughter through her tears. “Come in, Spike. And see if you can retrieve this young lady before I topple.”

Comprehending that she was about half an inch from knocking Giles over, Buffy slowly released him, wiping at her face with the back of her hands. “Oh, Giles, I’m sorry,” she said, with a shaky half laugh. “I didn’t… I guess I missed you.”

Giles blinked at her. “My apologies, but I’m not sure that we’ve met.”

“She’s the Slayer,” Spike said roughly as he strode through the doorway and shut the door behind them, leaving them clustered in the entryway corner of a small, dark-paneled living room.

Giles’s face tightened, an edge of pain entering his eyes. “Ah.” He regarded Buffy with a touch of amused fatigue. “Well, that explains your considerable enthusiasm in embracing, Miss…”

“Meg,” Buffy supplied softly. “My name is Meg Gallagher. Well, Morgan Elle, really, but Spike nixed that when it apparently didn’t hold up to his high sensibilities.”

Spike rolled his eyes at her, sprawling on the nearby brown leather couch, to Giles’s clear chagrin.

“Please,” her ex-Watcher muttered, “do make yourself at home.” Sighing, Giles turned back to Buffy. “Miss Gallagher, then. It’s a pleasure, however unexpected.” He raised a brow. “I’d introduce myself, but you seem under the impression that we’re already acquainted.”

“That’s because we are,” Buffy managed faintly. “I mean, not  _we_  we. In that, not the me that’s here, but the other me…”

Based on the baffled expression on Giles’s face, her rambling was not getting her anywhere. She winced and looked frantically at Spike. “Help?”

Spike chuckled lowly and sat up on the couch, his elbows resting on his thighs. “It’s Buffy, Rupes.”

Giles turned to stare at him. “I beg your…”

“She’s Buffy,” Spike repeated casually, examining his fingernails. “The red-haired Slayer chit standing in front of you with the verbal ability that comes and goes is Buffy bloody Summers. Of a sort, anyhow.”

There was a long moment of silence, then Giles fixed a slow, icy glare on the vampire. “I am not sure what your game is, William, but I will play no part in this kind of sick joke.”

Buffy sighed. “Giles?” When her ex-Watcher turned back to her, looking angry and indignant, she gave him a slightly mischievous look. “We already played this game decades ago when Faith stole my body, but if you want to do it again… here goes. There was that time a flashback to your demon summoning days almost killed me, but mostly just gave me a tattoo I had to get rid of before mom saw; the time you went blind from Willow’s ‘I should try out being a god’ phase; the time you nearly died after our RV crashed when we tried to escape Glory; and,” she paused for effect, watching as Giles’s face turned paler by the second, “that time you ended up under candy influence and screwed my mom on top of a police car, and she called you a stevedore.” Buffy frowned. “And I  _still_  don’t know what that means.”

As Giles gave in to a sudden choking and sputtering fit, Spike flashed him a devilish smirk from the couch. “A stevedore was it, Rupert? As in the army stevedores—lusty, virile, and strong? You sly bastard, it’s no wonder what’s-her-name from way back trotted from the Old World for a shag.”

Ugh. “Okay, going to try and forget that mental image now.”

Giles looked frantically back and forth between them, his mouth uncharacteristically gaping, and his eyes flashing panic.

“Oh, for Chrissake, Rupert,” Spike growled after a moment, “I know we’re bloody British, but give Buffy a hug before she falls apart again.”

That seemed to snap Giles’s brain back into working order, and he focused his attention entirely on her, wild-eyed. “Buffy?”

She gave him a small wave, mimicking the one she’d given Spike upon first re-meeting. “Hi, Giles.” She swallowed back a fresh wave of tears. “Um, it’s been a minute. You know, with the dying again and new body thing.”

“Good god,” Giles whispered.

Then, before she could continue with any kind of additional ineffective explanation, Buffy found herself wrapped in Giles’s arms, his voice sounding hoarse and choked. “Oh, Buffy. My god, you’re back again. Oh, my dear, dear Slayer.”

It was the ‘dear Slayer’ that got her. Unable to help herself, Buffy burst into tears again, clutching Giles back with complete, childish abandon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Army stevedores have been around since WWI, and there is even a poem about them, which Spike quotes (and which I have been holding onto for forever for this scene): http://www.ellawheelerwilcox.org/poems/pstevedo.htm
> 
> Given the era, however, Joyce was potentially thinking of the Vietnam stevedores: "a person who humps at least 12 hours a day or until the job is done, seven days a week, rain or shine, unloading everything from Agent Orange to M-48 Tanks and whatever else that was needed to fight the War in Vietnam" (http://www.vvaw.org/veteran/article/?id=2172)
> 
> (in general terms, a stevedore is just a dockworker)


	20. Transmigrator

The three of them somehow managed to find their way to Giles’s dining room table in between the second round of crying and the first pot of tea. Tea which had been made by Spike, of all people. And which Giles complimented, of all things.

“You always did make a good cuppa,” Giles said quietly as he accepted a refill, his gaze never leaving Buffy’s face.

Buffy raised a brow as Spike inclined his head in thanks, the vampire sprawling in the chair next to hers a moment later. “You’ve had tea with Giles before?”

Spike shrugged. “Loads of times.”

“In between stealing his Weetabix and being chained in the bathtub?”

Spike’s jaw tightened and he held her gaze steadily. “No, luv. In between you being dead the second time and not."

Oh.

"It was a long bloody summer, and Rupes and I came to the civil understanding that being miserable together was a sight better than going it alone.”

The grief in his tone was nearly unbearable, as if that summer had been a year ago instead of twenty. Part of the strangeness of being an immortal, probably—time could mean so little, and everything all at once. God knew her own sense of it was a little skewed these days.

“Well, I’m here now,” she said gently.

Her vampire’s lips quirked up. “That you are, pet.”

Giles cleared his throat. “Yes, and how, may I ask, is this possible? Were Buffy’s memories somehow transferred to this body—this Slayer, Meg?”

Buffy blinked. “Um, no. I’ve always been Buffy. Just… born in a new body.”

"I see." An interrogatory, academic light was in Giles’s eyes. “And this body that you were born into—did it already possess life when you entered it?”

“I have no idea what that means.”

Giles gave her a faint smile. “I suppose that was a bit abstract. Do you feel as if a part of you is… other than Buffy Summers? Something you melded with?”

Buffy frowned. “No, it’s only ever just been me in this body.” She ran a hand through her hair. “It’s just that, my body isn’t the same as before, and my life has definitely not been the same, so… I’m not the same, either. Does that make sense?”

“Indeed.” Giles regarded her with something like baffled wonder. “It seems that you’ve transmigrated, my dear.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”

“It’s… well, transmigration…” Giles glanced to the side and scanned the massive bookshelf lining the south wall of the room, looking incredibly putout after a moment when he was apparently missing whatever relevant text he was looking for. Frowning, he settled for steepling his fingers. “Transmigration is the passing of one’s soul or essence from one body to another, usually through the death of the initial body.”

Buffy scrunched up her nose. “So it’s just a fancy word for reincarnation?”

“Not quite. Various religions and cultures have inevitably disagreed on the what and how and why of things but, simply put, transmigration is often recorded as giving life to a new body, whereas reincarnation is the transference into a creature who would already be birthed. Since you still feel entirely, ah, yourself, I think the former is the likelier conclusion.”

“Huh. Well, I guess I transmigrated then.”

Giles was absently peering around the dining room now, his fingers twitching in the way she vividly remembered them doing whenever he was looking for a writing implement. “I must chronicle this,” he muttered. Then he paused and turned back to Buffy, looking troubled. “Do you have any idea how this has come about?”

Buffy and Spike exchanged looks, and Spike rose with a flourish. “I’ll put another kettle on.”

 

***

 

To his credit, Giles interrupted very little as she outlined her newest lifetime, though he did stand up halfway through and retrieve a bottle of scotch from the sideboard. After a moment’s hesitation, he poured three glasses and distributed them around the table.

“Your new family sounds particularly kind,” he murmured as he sat back down, taking a determined swig of his scotch.

Buffy raised a brow. “And that made you want a drink?”

The wrinkles around Giles’s eyes crinkled. “My dear, you’ve had nineteen years to adjust to your… new existence. Less than two hours hasn’t quite done the trick for me, I’m afraid.” Something seemed to occur to him then and he fixed a narrow gaze on Spike. “You are remarkably calm about Buffy’s reappearance.”

Buffy snorted. “Oh, don’t let him fool you. He’s had awhile to adjust. I brought him to his knees when I first showed up.”

Spike arched a brow at her, curling his tongue behind his teeth in a lascivious, insinuative smirk. “That she did. Right to my sodding knees.”

Buffy flushed bright red and smacked his shoulder. “Behave.”

Spike waggled his brows at her. “But this way’s so much more entertaining, luv.”

She glared at him. “Any more getting all innuendo-y with Giles in the room, and you’ll be entertained by sleeping on the floor.”

Giles stared at them, wide-eyed. “Good lord.” He whipped off his glasses and started cleaning them on his sweater. “The two of you are… involved?”

Spike snorted. “Only if by ‘involved’ you mean that I’m her willing slave for fucking ever. Not that that’s much of a change from before.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “I have no idea how you manage to say the most romantic things in the worst way possible.”

“It’s a gift, luv.”

“Can I return it?”

“Nah. We’re past the thirty-day limit. You’re stuck with it.”

“Damn.” Buffy turned her attention back to a dumbstruck Giles and fought a smile. “Giles, you’re gaping again.”

Her ex-Watcher’s mouth snapped shut. He took another long drink of scotch, then said slowly, “I think you ought to finish your tale.”

“Might want to keep the bottle handy, Rupes,” Spike advised.

By the time Buffy finished explaining Mrs. Klein’s spell and subsequent predictions—now fully realized as accurate, Giles was holding his nearly empty second glass of scotch in a death grip and looking faintly murderous.

“Uh, Giles?”

Her ex-Watcher’s mouth tightened. “So. Not only did Willow rip my Slayer from heaven, but she also utterly botched it so that you might never return, and are instead doomed to an eternity of bearing the burden of the Slayer. Is that what I am to understand from this?”

Spike’s gaze was dark and glittering. “That’s the long and short of it, Rupert.”

Giles gave the vampire a hard look. “Why didn’t you wring her bloody neck?”

Spike shrugged. “We were across the pond when I found out.”

“Ah.”

Buffy stared at the two men who loved her, both apparently in perfect agreement about their homicidal tendencies. Oh boy. “If anyone has the right to seek vengeance on Willow, it’s me,” she said firmly. “And that’s just not how it’s going to go.”

Giles regarded her unreadably for a long moment, then his lips quirked into a small, nostalgic smile. “Your voice is quite different, but your manner is very similar.”

“Once a bossy bint, always a bossy bint,” Spike agreed with a grin.

“It’s a Slayer requirement,” Buffy said cheerfully, before taking a deep breath and holding Giles’s gaze. “Are you ready for the rest?”

Her ex-Watcher poured himself another tumbler of scotch. “Please continue.”

Buffy nodded and launched into a PG rendition of her re-meeting with Spike, and her subsequent Calling and meeting with the current Council. “So now we’re here,” she finished quietly. “And we want you to come back to London with us.”

Giles looked flustered. “Oh, Buffy. While that’s very endearing, I haven’t been a Watcher for twenty years.” He motioned to himself with a rueful expression. “And age, I’m afraid, has caught up with me. I’m not as spry as I once was, and I can likely do without further concussions for the remainder of my life.” He looked at her helplessly. “I fear I would no longer serve you well as a Watcher.”

“Um, that’s okay, because actually… Spike’s my Watcher now.”

Giles stared at her for a solid moment, then—to her complete amazement—burst into hearty giggles.

“You almost had me with that,” he wheezed jovially, when he finally regained some semblance of control, then paused when Buffy gave him an apologetic look. “Oh. Oh, good lord. You can’t be serious.” He turned a disbelieving gaze on Spike. “William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers, is a  _Watcher_? What is Wesley doing over there?”

Spike snorted. “Don’t blame him, Rupes. Or me. Buffy’s the one who requested me.”

Giles turned to her, looking flabbergasted. “But why?”

Buffy held in a smile. “Believe it or not, Spike has, um, layers.”

“Oh, ta for that, luv,” Spike grumbled.

Buffy grinned at him, her expression falling back to serious as she took in Giles’s doubtful gaze. “He’s been with the Council for years, he’s trained god-only-knows how many Watchers, and he’s always known Slayers. And he knows  _me_ , the me that was Buffy Summers and has now been Meg Gallagher for twenty years.” She paused. “And I trust him.”

Something collapsed in Giles’s expression. “Yes, I can see that you would,” he murmured, looking deeply pained. “I have not forgotten that—of all of us—it was Spike who berated us for sending you off to face Sweet alone.” He drew in a slow breath. “And for that, Buffy, I…”

Buffy gave him a wry look. “Let me guess. Heaping loads of guilt because my death is somehow your fault?”

Her ex-Watcher's expression dripped with shame. “There’s no ‘somehow’ about it. I was under the incredibly erroneous assumption that you were suffering from a…” Giles seemed to struggle for words, “lack of desire for self-sufficiency.”

Buffy shrugged. “You were only working with the information you had. And I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Spike: it’s not your fault. Okay?”

Giles wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Quite.”

Buffy leaned forward and rested her hands on top of her ex-Watcher’s. He startled at her touch, but didn’t move away. “If you really want to help now, come to London. I could really use your support in telling Willow and Wesley.” She drew in a deep breath. “And in helping them figure out how to make this transmigrational merry-go-round thing stop.”

Giles regarded her with alarm. “You mean to let Willow involve herself again?”

Buffy snorted. “Well, I didn’t really have a say the first time. And I didn’t plan on it now at first, no. But do you really think anything will stop her once she finds out about me?”

Giles’s face darkened. “Indeed.” He sat up straighter in his chair and downed the remainder of his scotch, his glass landing on the table with a firm thump. “Onward to the Big Smoke we go then.”

Buffy blinked. “The… where?” She watched Spike and Giles trade tolerant glances and rolled her eyes. “I can see that, you know.”

Spike turned to her with an unapologetic grin. “Just an old name for London, pet.”

“Well, that explains why I don’t know it then,” Buffy said innocently. “Since I’m not old.”

Giles sent Spike a defeated look. “I’m afraid we set ourselves up splendidly for that one.”

Spike smirked at him. “But unlike you, Rupes, I only get better with age.”

Giles shook his head and raised a brow at Buffy. “You’re really keeping company with this twit now?”

“’Fraid so.”

Spike just leaned back in his seat with a calculating smirk, thumbs laced through his belt loops. “Slayer knows I’ve got my good qualities.”

Giles decisively rose from his chair. “And may I never find out what those are.” He took a deep breath. “Give me an hour to pack, then we’ll get on our way.”

 

***

 

“Bloody hell, Rupes, what possessed you to buy this bite-size hunk of junk?”

Giles threw Spike a dirty look as he lifted the last of his suitcases into the hatchback of what looked to be a very old, mint green Mini Cooper. “I cannot emphasize enough how little I took into account your sensibilities when making this purchase.”

Buffy ran a hand over an oval taillight. “I think it’s cute. Can I drive?” At Giles’s look of panic, she added defensively, “I know how to drive now. In a non-destructive fashion.”

“I’m certain you do,” Giles agreed in a mollifying tone, “but I’d rather continue our discussion along the way.” He held out the keys to a startled Spike. “Spike can make himself useful as our driver.”

Spike scowled, but took the keys. “First the sodding Citroen and now this?”

“Try not to wreck this particular conveyance.”

Spike smirked at him. “No promises, Rupert.”

Giles very wisely chose to ignore the bait, and instead slid into the backseat with Buffy, a notebook ready in his hands.

Buffy shook her head. “You weren’t kidding about the chronicling thing, huh?”

Giles looked at her in surprise. “Of course not.” He turned to an empty page. “Now, if you don’t mind, could you start from the beginning again?”

Oh god. She exhaled noisily. “How long is the trip back to London?”

“A couple hours,” Spike supplied as he adjusted the rearview mirror and shifted the little car into drive.

“Plenty of time,” Giles agreed, looking at her expectantly. He glanced toward the front of the car. “And put on your blasted seatbelt.”

Spike gave an indignant huff, but there was the snick of a seatbelt a moment later.

“Lack of time really wasn’t my concern,” Buffy muttered, nearly inaudibly, and heard Spike chuckle. She glanced back over at Giles and found herself melting at the eagerness written all over his face. Well, she’d wanted Giles to know her, and there probably wasn’t a more complete way of doing it than this. Buffy took a deep breath and settled back into her seat. “I was born again on July 16, 2002…”


	21. The Witch and the Watchers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to Liverdoc for her invaluable help wrangling language

The upside of spending the trip back to London recounting her newest life to Giles was that Buffy didn’t have time to worry about the upcoming reveal to Wesley and Willow. The downside was that spending another two hours rehashing her private history had about done in her patience and whatever remained of her nerves.

Thankfully, when Spike turned on his phone as they reached the outskirts of London, he swore violently enough to interrupt Giles’s interrogation about her Slayer senses.

“I pray that has nothing to do with my car.” Giles caught sight of the phone. “And put that away while you’re driving.”

“Wouldn’t be a problem if this jalopy had Bluetooth.”

“There are very few technological needs that can’t wait for the car to park.”

“You’re a right Luddite, you know that, Rupes?”

Giles glared at him. “Says the démodé renegade.”

“I’m a  _rebel_ , you old codger.”

“Who’re you calling a codger, you lowlife relic.”

“Pedant.”

“Rattlebrain.”

“Stuffed shirt.”

Giles barked a laugh. “Hardly.”

“Yeah? When’s the last time you cut loose?”

“Too bloody long ago,” Giles muttered.

Spike snorted. “You’ve been rotting away in Bath, Watcher. It’s a damn good thing Buffy came to find you when she did, or else we might’ve discovered you mummified in that cottage. London’ll liven you right up.”

“And in what absurd dimension do you think I hold your opinion in any regard?”

“All of them, if you have half a brain. A dead man knows his own kind.”

Giles pursed his lips. “Indeed.”

Buffy stared at the two men—at the slight grin on Spike’s face and the amused glint in Giles’s eyes—and it struck her: they liked each other.

When had  _that_  happened?

After a moment of strangely companionable silence, Spike glanced back toward Buffy. “I have seventeen voicemails from Red.”

She winced. “Guess she was really upset we left.”

Giles looked bemused. “Seventeen seems a bit excessive for a half day’s escape.”

As if on cue, Spike’s phone rang. He clicked the speakerphone. “’Lo, Red.”

Willow’s voice came through loud and slightly tinny; “Finally! The only reason we aren’t out retrieving you guys is because I saw you heading back to London.”

“Did a locator spell on us, did you?”

“You didn’t leave me much choice,” Willow said sharply. “We need you back  _now_.”

Something in Willow’s tone made Buffy’s stomach drop.

It must’ve done the same for Spike; all the casual snark disappeared from his tone. “What is it, Wil?”

“We have word from the Cairo Watchers that the mystical chains holding Ammit are weakening. She could be loose any time.”

Oh god.

Spike’s entire body tensed, his fingers digging into the steering wheel. “We’ll be to headquarters in thirty minutes.”

“I’ll meet you there.” Willow clicked the call to an end. 

Apparently there was no rest for the supernaturally reborn. Not even four days of being the Slayer and it was back to a life of death, danger, and apocalypse. 

Next to her, Giles looked baffled and worried. “Ammit of Egyptian lore? The Eater of Souls?”

 _Eater of souls?_  That was a nickname Willow hadn’t said before. So, Ammit didn’t only devour life force, but souls too? Buffy’s heart pounded in her ears. Did that mean–

“That’s the one,” Spike growled.

Giles’s expression darkened. “You’d best bring me up to speed.”

Buffy briefly outlined the Cairo situation as Spike sped through evening traffic. She finished with a soft, “Ammit had the element of surprise against the last Slayer—against Nadine and her team. She won’t have that against me. And she’s still just a demon. I’ve faced a hell god, so I… How bad can she be?”

Giles sucked in a sharp breath. “Unfortunately, my dear, Ammit is not just a simple demon with a terrible power. She is…” He pursed his lips. “You recall the mayor of Sunnydale?”

“Of course. His giant snakeness was sort of memorable.” She paused, terrible realization sinking in. “She’s like him?”

“Very much. She is, like the mayor ascended to be, an Old One—one of the original demons who dwelled on earth until they were cast out to other domains.”

“Illyria’s of the same type,” Spike added, his eyes still glued on the road.

Buffy blinked. “The blue woman? I thought she was a god like Glory.”

Giles gave her a faint smile. “Godhood is often as much a titling as a state of being. However, while many of the Old Ones titled themselves as gods, Glory—so far as the Council could find—was not demonic at all, but closer to our human concept of a god—an ancient higher being.”

Buffy swallowed. “Ammit’s not as invulnerable then, I hope.”

“If Mayor Wilkins was any indicator, a certain level of destruction should do.”

Spike glanced back with a grin. “And that’s where the fun starts.”

Giles gave an exasperated sigh, grimacing when he caught Buffy’s answering smile. “Oh, not you too.”

Buffy smiled apologetically. “Sorry. Still fight-y girl here.”

“Two of a bloody kind,” Giles muttered. He fixed a hard eye on the back of Spike’s head. “You are actually aware of what being a Watcher entails, aren’t you? You cannot afford to be reckless.”

Spike glanced back at him with a snort. “Says the bloke who came after Angelus with only a bit of fire. Although I have to say, Rupert, watching you beat the daylights out of Peaches with a burning bat was the highlight of my week.”

“Yes, well, that is a perfect example of the dangers of going rogue,” Giles said tightly. “I let my grief get the best of me. The venture nearly cost me my life, and put Buffy in danger when she so thoughtfully came to rescue me.”

Giles’s expression was haunted and Buffy knew they were both reliving the same memory—the only time Giles had truly cried in front of her. He’d been surprisingly light in her arms outside the burning factory, a broken man she couldn’t bear to lose.

Bracing herself as Spike swerved onto an exit ramp, Buffy instinctively grasped her ex-Watcher’s hands in her own. Giles’s eyes crinkled up in a small smile. He lifted their twined hands and pressed a chaste, fatherly kiss to her knuckles before releasing his grip.

“Well, there was the rub,” Spike mused, after a short silence. “Your girl and your charge were different birds—it had your loyalty all splintered. I’ve just got the one.”

“And I told him I’d stake him if he does anything stupid,” Buffy added.

“Yeah, just like I’ll put you in the ground for the same, Slayer. And don’t you forget it.”

Giles regarded them narrowly. “So your solution is that neither of you is to be rash under threat of death from the other?”

Buffy smiled cheerily. “You’ve got it.”

Giles closed his eyes, his face tilting upward in clear beseechment. “Good lord. I’m too old for this.”

 

***

 

Willow was pacing by the front entrance when they arrived, her frustrated expression shifting to astonishment as they all piled out onto the sidewalk.

“ _Giles_?”

Giles offered her a curt nod. “Willow.”

The redhead blinked dumbly at him. “I don’t… well, it’s nice to see you, but what are you doing here?” She rounded on Spike. “This was why you stole away Meg today?”

Buffy raised her hand with a small wave. “Actually,  _I_  stole  _him_. And Giles, too.” She glanced around the darkened street. “I’ll explain in a minute. Is Wesley here?”

Willow pursed her lips but nodded. “He’s inside.” She hesitated, then gave a helpless sigh and led them inside.

Buffy expected the building to be mostly shut down, since it was almost midnight, but staff milled around the open office space the same as they had at noon, taking calls and chatting. The back of Buffy’s neck started buzzing, and she scanned the desks more closely. A quick inspection revealed someone’s tentacle snaking out from under a sweater vest and a couple pale figures across the room who were eying her warily.

“It’s the night crew, pet,” Spike murmured as they walked. “Told you I wasn’t the only beastie in employ.”

Buffy swallowed. “I guess not. What do they do here?”

“Varies. The vamps are usually feeders.” At Buffy’s raised brow, he added, “They tell the Council about the gossip circling around the Big Bads in the area.”

“Really? Why? What do they get out of it?”

Now it was Spike’s turn to raise a brow. “I know you didn’t see much of it in Sunnyhell, luv, but not all vamps are mindless fledges or setting out to end the world.”

“Or end a Slayer?”

Spike smirked, though his eyes were pained. “Or that.” He shrugged. “The ones who don’t want trouble know to stay out of your way. They don’t like their territory in upheaval anymore than you or I, and a Big Bad around pretty well guarantees trouble.”

Buffy sighed, fatigue crashing down. “It’s never going to get less complicated, is it?”

“Doubt it.”

“Damn.”

Spike squeezed her hand as they entered the now-familiar conference room, and Wesley looked up from harried study of his iPad, eyes widening.

“Rupert? What’re you doing here?”

Giles slowly sank into an available chair, looking wearied. “Following my Slayer, apparently.”

“ _Your_ Slayer?” Wesley gave Buffy and Spike a baffled look. “I approved Spike to be Meg’s Watcher, not you.”

Well, it looked like it was time for reveal number three. Buffy turned so that she had both Willow and Wesley in her field of vision. “You did. And Spike is my Watcher now, but he wasn’t always.”

Wesley frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“So the thing is, when Buffy Summers died twenty years ago, she didn’t just die; she got reborn.”

“Transmigrated,” Giles amended.

“Yes, she transmigrated,” Buffy agreed. She exhaled slowly. “I’m not repeating the entire tale again—Giles has it word for word if you’re ever interested—so the long story short is that I am Meg Gallagher but, before that, I was Buffy Summers.”

She was met with blank, stunned stares.

Finally, Wesley cleared his throat, looking wary and evaluative. “And we should believe this why?”

Buffy met his gaze steadily. “You had a crush on Cordelia Chase once, if memory serves. Tell me, did you guys ever hook up after prom?”

Wesley’s mouth fell open.

Giles turned to Buffy, raising a brow. “I don’t suppose that’s how I looked?”

“Pretty much exactly.”

“How ridiculous. Remind me not to do that again.”

Willow’s gaze was darting between them all, her expression worried and disbelieving. “I don’t…”

Buffy turned her full attention toward her once-friend. “You know that time you dated an ancient demon who got released from Giles’s book and turned all killer robot guy? Way worse dating decision than Viv.”

Willow’s green eyes widened to saucers. “You...” She took a short step forward, her hand partially outstretched. “B-buffy?”

Buffy tucked a wayward curl behind her ear as she offered a small, strained smile. “Hi, Wil. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier. It’s just… well, I needed to work through some things.”

Willow stared at her, her lips parted in shock. “But how?” she blurted. Her brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you go back to… Was– was it something about Sweet’s magic?”

“Um, not so much.”

“But then…”

Spike fixed her with a hard look. “Try looking in the mirror, Red.”

“Huh?” Willow frowned at him, her expression paling as comprehension dawned. “ _Me_? But I haven’t done anything since…” Her hand lifted to her mouth in horror. “Oh goddess.”

“Since the resurrection spell,” Buffy finished evenly. “Which got interrupted. And which you didn’t pay full price for. Which has led to a Buffy-go-round of life.”

“Which she’s currently caught on for the rest of sodding forever,” Spike added harshly.

“For… forever?” Tears edged into Willow’s stricken gaze. “I didn’t know,” she whispered.

Buffy’s throat tightened. “I know.”

“It doesn’t change the fact,” Giles added sharply, “that you committed a much larger atrocity than any of us realized.”

Willow’s chin trembled. “Oh goddess.”

Buffy sighed as Giles opened his mouth again. “Giles, berate later. Apocalypse now.”

The words seemed to jolt Wesley back to life. “Yes,” he said grimly. “We have a situation far more pressing than… this one.” His gaze sharpened on Buffy, his mouth curving into a faint smile. “Another Slayer with an affinity for vampires. I suppose I should have suspected.”

Buffy shrugged, fighting a glow of embarrassment. There wasn’t much point in debating the idea at this point.

Spike wrapped an arm around her waist, glaring at Wesley. “There’s nothing wrong with a woman good enough that she makes evil beasties want something brighter.”

Wesley raised a brow. “That wasn’t a slight against her character. Merely an observation.” He turned to Buffy. “And while there are a hundred questions I intend to ask you, they will have to wait.”

“Good, because I think I’ve answered as many questions as my brain can handle today.” Sighing, Buffy sank down in the chair beside Giles as Spike took her other side, so that she ended up flanked by her Watchers old and new. It felt right.

In fact, now that she could breathe again through the fading adrenaline, all of it felt right—like a massive fyarl-sized weight was lifted from her chest that she hadn’t even known was there. She looked back over at Willow, who hadn’t moved from her standing position. Tears were streaming silently down the witch’s face, her hand still covering her mouth as she stifled the noises from her throat. Wesley was awkwardly patting her shoulder.

Buffy fixed her once-friend with a compassionate half-smile. “Willow. It’s okay.”

Spike and Giles both glared at her. “No, it bloody well is not,” they said together.

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Okay, first of all, it’s a little creepy that you two are on that much of the same wavelength. Is that a Watcher trait I didn’t know about?”

Spike’s glare grew heavier as he ignored her attempt at levity. “No, you daft bint. It’s because we love you, and Red buggered you entirely.”

A sob escaped Willow’s mouth and, turning on her heel, the witch turned and fled from the room.

Wesley joined in the glaring game. “As if the both of you are bloody saints. Perhaps this hasn’t been clear, but we’re in the middle of a rather large issue and I’d like my Assistant Director to not be emotionally traumatized. If you can’t control your tempers over a mistake decades past, you will kindly get the hell out of this building.”

Spike growled low in his throat, his mien turning dangerous. “Just try and remove me, Oxford.”

Wesley took a menacing step forward. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“It’s not only Spike you’ll have to contend with," Giles said, looking distinctly Ripper-ish. 

Oh, for Pete’s sake. Buffy rose from her seat. “I’m going to get Willow.” She fixed the startled men with an imperious stare—apparently they’d forgotten she was even there. “And the three of you better have simmered down with the testosterone pissing contest by the time I get back so we can go do that little thing called saving the world.”

Three abashed faces quickly looked away from one another.

 

***

 

Buffy found Willow in the nearby ladies bathroom. The witch was huddled against the tile wall with her arms around her waist as she sobbed into her shoulder.

“Wil.”

Willow hesitantly lifted her head, her green eyes glistening with tears and her chest hiccuping. “You must hate me. Is that why you didn’t say anything?”

“I didn’t say anything to  _anyone_  until this year,” Buffy said softly. “I thought maybe this second life was… well, I didn’t know what, but it’s been a good one and I was happy. And a child for a lot of it, which has been all sorts of weird. I just… wanted to let Buffy Summers stay dead.” She took a deep breath. “I didn’t know until I was a teenager that this whole thing was connected to my resurrection, and not for sure until I got Called this week that I would end up the Slayer again and possibly until the rest of forever.”

Willow flinched and looked down at her shoes as a fresh wash of tears slid down her cheeks. “You must hate me,” she said again.

“I don’t hate you,” Buffy said firmly. “What I said yesterday was true, okay? Everything I said.”

A hiccuped laugh escaped the other redhead, her lips quirking in a small smile. “I guess I get the Spike thing a little better now.” Her gaze cleared slightly and she wiped at her face. “Goddess, Buffy. You’re here. Like  _here_ here.”

Buffy gave her a rueful smile. “Yep.”

Willow’s gaze swept down her, looking in a way she hadn’t looked when Meg had just been a stranger, the next in a long line of Slayers. “It’s weird,” the witch admitted.

“Tell me about it.” Buffy twirled a copper curl around her fingers. “But like you said, redheads have to stick together, right?”

Willow gave her a tremulous smile. “We do.” She swallowed. “I’ll help you figure this out, okay? If you… if you want me to.”

“I want you to.”

Willow straightened, looking more certain of herself. “Okay. And Buffy? I’m not the stupid young witch that I was twenty years ago.”

“I know, Wil.”

“Can I hug you?”

Buffy held open her arms and Willow rushed in, enveloping her in a tight and warm embrace. Her hair smelled of something tropically floral and familiar.

Buffy laughed slightly as recognition hit. “My mom has the same shampoo.”

Willow reared back, her eyes wide. “Your mom? Ooph, this is going to take some getting used to.”

“No kidding. You have wrinkles.”

Willow laughed. “Well, it sort of happens at forty.” Her nose scrunched up. “Unless you’re you, I guess.”

“Upside of the new body thing.”

Willow stepped back and surveyed Buffy carefully. “So, um, where do we go from here?”

“For right now?”

Willow gave her a wry look, the expression heavy with a kind of maturity that twenty-year-old Willow’s face couldn’t have managed. “That’s probably the best place to start.”

“Probably.” Buffy bit her lip. “Well, I think I’m going to be heading to Cairo soon. Wanna come?”

Willow looked like she wanted to cry again, but smiled instead. “I’d love to.”


	22. Debts Owed to Foreign Gods

There was tenuous peace in the conference room when Buffy and Willow returned, all three men having relapsed back into adulthood with talks of Cairo.

“So, what’s the plan?”

Wesley looked over wearily. “To keep Ammit from breaking loose and decimating the world population. Beyond that, I’m afraid we haven’t much else yet.”

“Sounds like my kind of plan,” Buffy chirped. She turned to Willow. “First things first, then. How’s your confidence on that protection spell for me against our happy little drain demon?”

Willow nibbled her bottom lip, green eyes flashing worry. “Without a chance to test it, I really don’t know.”

Warmth and gratitude bloomed in Buffy’s chest. “You know, twenty years ago that wouldn’t have bothered you.”

Willow winced. “Like I said, I’m not that witch anymore. And against a demon like Ammit, the margin for error is really, really tiny.” Inexplicably, Willow’s eyes widened at the end of her statement, her expression paling. “ _Buffy_. You’re Buffy!”

Everyone stared at her.

Spike lifted a brow. “Yeah. Believe we already settled that, Red.”

Willow shook her head violently. “No, I mean…” She took a deep breath, visibly composing herself. “For Buffy’s resurrection spell, I called on the god Osiris.”

Buffy frowned at the apparent non-sequitur. “Well, that’s… nice to know, I guess?” When Giles and Wesley grew very still, her heart fluttered in her chest. “I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that’s important somehow.”

Willow looked faintly sick. “You mentioned something about the price not being paid, right?”

“Um. Yep. Mrs. Klein—the witch who figured it out for me—said that the price you paid for my return wasn’t enough and so the remainder was supposed to be taken at my death." Buffy paused, uneasy. She hadn't thought to ask what that meant at the time—already overwhelmed by the rest of the revelation, and she had the bad feeling now that she didn't want to know. "But since the spell was interrupted, my essence keeps migrating into a new life instead of going... wherever it was going to go.”

Willow grew even paler. “Oh goddess.”

Spike growled as Giles and Wesley traded tense looks. “I don’t suppose one of you is going to explain?”

“Ammit,” Wesley said softly, “is, for all intents and purposes, a debt collector for Osiris.”

Buffy felt ice wash through her veins. “And I owe him a debt.”

“Technically,” Giles said heavily, “the Slayer line owes him a debt.”

Spike bit off a string of curses, his eyes washing amber. “Guessing it’s not a coincidence Ammit took out the last Slayer then.”

Giles’s face was grim. “No, I don’t imagine it was.”

Buffy sank into a chair, guilt clutching her insides. “So Nadine died because of me?”

“No,” Willow said sharply. “If anything, she...” Willow’s voice momentarily failed her, and she finished in a whisper, “It’s because of me.”

Giles sighed. “At this juncture, whose fault it is ceases to be relevant.” When Willow looked at him in surprise, he added tightly, “That is not to say it won’t be discussed in great detail at a later date.”

Willow looked down at the floor.

“What it means for the moment,” Wesley added, “is that there are more powers at play here than a wayward priesthood.”

A trickle of terror cut through Buffy’s jumbled thoughts. “What happened to Nadine when Ammit ate her? What happens if Ammit devours me?”

“What happens to all lower beings against our might,” interrupted a new voice, impassive and haughty. “They cease to exist.”

A strangely armored woman stood in the conference room doorway, her dark hair streaked through with a violent, almost incandescent shade of royal blue. The hue bled into her skin like a leached dye, all the veins and cracks heady with washed out color. The irises of her eyes—large and inhuman—were as bright as her hair. Power rolled from her body in a swamping wave.

“Illyria.” Wesley stood and beckoned to her. “Thank you for coming.”

Illyria shifted her head down slightly in monarchal acknowledgment. “You promised me entertainment.”

Buffy eyed her with wary suspicion. So this was the godwoman who had claimed Spike for her pet. “You don’t care that we’re going to fight another of your kind?”

Illyria fixed her with an unblinking, intent gaze. “I have no kinship to this Devourer. I could have eliminated her eons ago with a mere thought.” Her mouth twisted. “Unfortunately, my powers are much diminished.” She shot Willow a dirty look.

“Diminished?”

Willow sighed. “When Illyria took over Fred’s body, her power was too much for the form. Wes and I had to draw away a lot of her power so she didn’t, um, explode.”

Buffy blinked. “Oh.”

“I’m the one who actually performed the ritual, so she blames me.” Willow pursed her lips. “Still. Twenty years later.”

“Time is inconsequential,” Illyria said stiffly. She returned to narrowly surveying Buffy. “You understand this feeling, do you not, Chosen One? You go round and round this strange mortal world, body to body, with no end. You are as trapped as I am.”

Buffy startled. “How…”

“Illyria does not see us the way we see one other,” Wesley murmured, his eyes glued to the godwoman.

“I see your petty human emotions,” Illyria added. She met Wesley’s gaze and something softened in her expression. “Sometimes I even feel them.”

And with a slight shimmer, the godwoman was gone; a human-looking version of her—all brown hair and apple pie smile—stood in her place. “Hey, y’all.”

Buffy stared. “What is happening right now?”

Wesley drew a weary hand down his brow. “I’ve asked you not to do that around company.”

The woman strode over and kissed Wesley’s forehead, laughing a bright, innocent laugh. “Don’t be silly, Wes.” She trailed a finger down his cheek, her smile mischievous. “A girl has to get out now and again.”

“That’s the bird Illyria took over,” Spike murmured. "Fred."

Buffy continued to stare as Fred-Illyria turned to speak animatedly with Willow. “She’s not looking so taken over about now.”

“I am told Illyria absorbed Winifred’s memories instead of destroying them,” Giles murmured, watching the godwoman with clear fascination, “and, likely, at least part of her essence.”

Buffy swallowed. “Is that what Ammit does then? Absorbs?”

“Illyria’s case was special,” Wesley said evenly as he watched Illyria’s transformed body, his expression heavy with some hungry mix of pain and love. “She was murdered by her rivals and resurrected with Fred as a vessel.”

Illyria looked over, in a blink back to blue and armored. “Cowardly rabble,” she hissed. “They needed all their numbers to overcome me.” A smug smile parted her lips. “And yet, I remain. Even lessened, it is  _I_ who am here in this new world.” Her eyes narrowed. “I have no wish for a rival to return again. I will rend this Devourer to useless shreds.”

Willow’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Speaking of rending.” She stood and motioned to Buffy with an eager smile. “I have something for you.”

Buffy blinked. “Me? But you didn’t even know I was here until an hour ago.”

Willow’s smile twisted. “Well, for Meg, anyway.” She paused, a slight frown crossing her features. “Would you rather we called you that? I didn’t think to ask…”

Buffy smiled wryly. “Either is fine. Even my parents—my new ones—call me Buffy, but I’ve gotten used to Meg, too.”

Giles tapped a slow rhythm on the table. “It might be wise to keep your newest moniker in public, my dear. The last thing we need is the dark element knowing who and what you are.”

Buffy nodded. “Agreed. To most of the world, I need to remain Meg Gallagher, the newly minted Vampire Slayer.”

Spike snorted. “Not a beast with an ounce of brain that’ll believe the ‘newly minted’ part, luv. Not with the skills you’ve got.”

Buffy scrunched up her nose. “Meg Gallagher, the newly minted but incredibly well-trained Vampire Slayer?”

Wesley raised a brow. “A bit long for the name placard, don’t you think?”

“I’m getting a name placard?”

“Hypothetically speaking.”

“Hypothetically then, my placard is as long as I need it to be.”

Wesley’s lips twitched. “As you say.”

Buffy rose from her chair. “You guys and, um, god okay here for a minute?”

Spike made a shooing motion at her. “Go get your prezzie, luv. We’ll hold down the fate of the bloody world for a few minutes.”

“Okay.” Buffy grinned, turning to Willow. “So you have something for me, Wil?”

Willow returned the grin. “Do I ever.”

 

***

 

What Willow had for her was a pile of weapons. Buffy brushed a thumb lightly, lovingly over the blunt edge of a red steel battle axe.

“Really not what I expected from you, but I’m not complaining.”

Willow waggled her brows. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Buffy glanced around the large armory, every inch of it covered in weaponry from medieval to modern. “This isn’t the half of it? Because this is impressive.”

Willow’s eyes sparkled as she nodded to where Buffy was still stroking the axe. “It feels good, right?”

Unease spiked through her. Buffy stilled her hand, removing it from the metal with great, almost disturbing reluctance. “Yes,” she admitted slowly. “I’m a little worried about the why, though.”

“It’s nothing bad. Way back, when we were dealing with the First in Sunnydale, Faith got ahold of this ancient Slayer weapon we called the Scythe. It was made for the First Slayer and imbued with the essence of the Slayer line itself. Heavy stuff.”

Buffy started stroking the axe again. “What happened to it?”

“It’s still around, probably.”

“Probably?”

Willow’s shoulders slumped. “It’s down in the bottom of the hellmouth with Faith.”

A sharp pang of grief went through Buffy. For all the bad that Faith had caused once upon a time, she’d saved the world when the chips were down, and died a Slayer’s death.  _Thank you, Faith._

“I thought about trying to get it out, but”—Willow shrugged—“with the instability of the hellmouth and all the magic that went on down there… it’s probably best staying where it is.”

Buffy swallowed. “Probably.” She caressed the axe handle. “So what’s with this one? Did you find another Slayer weapon?”

Willow’s face brightened. “Nope. I made that one.” She motioned to the back wall next to them, where an array of impressive weaponry rested. “I made all of these. They’re not nearly as powerful as the Scythe, but they’re made of almost as much magic as they are steel, and highly attuned to the Slayer line.”

Buffy regarded the expanse of offerings. Almost any kind of weapon she’d ever worked with—and several she hadn’t—was there. Staves and axes and swords and maces. Bows and sais and spears and daggers. Flails and falchions and hammers and bolas. “You’ve been busy.”

“There’s not much that a couple decades can’t accomplish.” Willow opened her arms. “Pick what calls to you.”

“That would be everything,” Buffy murmured, unable to keep from touching the implements as she passed them. They felt right against her skin—a deadly, sharp extension of herself.

Finally, regretfully, she narrowed her choices down to a massive Chinese war sabre, a long spear, and a sawtooth dagger.

Willow eyed her arsenal. “Close range, distance, and ‘oh shit’?”

Buffy laughed. “Kind of the Slayer standard, I take it?”

“Yeah.” Willow gave her an unreadable look. “I don’t think I  _got_ you, back then. I wanted to, and I tried, but I didn’t. You were always Buffy first and Slayer second.”

Buffy wrapped the sabre in its leather sheath, her fingers tingling where it touched the metal. “I can’t blame you,” she said softly. “It’s what I wanted to be.” Buffy met Willow’s gaze. “But the thing is, you brought me back as a warrior of the people, and all of me came back—girl and Slayer—in one tidy package. In this life, I started slaying vamps again at thirteen.”

“ _Thirteen_? Sheesh.” Willow rummaged around for the dagger sheath and slid it in. “Ready for round two of prezzies?”

Buffy blinked as she took the dagger from Willow’s outstretched hand. “There’s more?”

“Loads more.”

 

***

 

Thirty minutes later, Buffy was outfitted in a formfitting, lightweight suit that—as Willow demonstrated by using the dagger—easily withstood a blade’s edge.

“It has an interdimensional tracking device, too,” Willow said, ticking items off on her fingers. “The button on your left wrist triggers an oxygen hood—in case you end up somewhere that can’t support human breathing or you’re, you know, underwater; the button on your right wrist shifts your personal gravity. I have a manual I’ll give you for it.”

Buffy shook her head in amazement as she admired her reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall. “Geez, Wil. You were always stellar at science, but this is incredible. I feel like James Bond.”

Willow grinned. “Q didn’t have anything on me.” Her face grew slightly sheepish. “I did have to ask Fred about some of the deeper molecular stuff.”

“You mean Illyria?”

Willow shrugged. “Yes and no. When she’s in Fred’s form, she’s Fred. I can’t really explain it.”

“So she and Wesley…”

Willow scrunched up her nose. “It’s complicated. He kept Illyria at arm’s length for years. He’d lock himself in his office alone whenever Fred showed up.”

“What changed?”

“Honestly? We all got drunk at the Christmas party in… I think it was 2006.” Amusement entered Willow’s voice, “Have you ever seen a drunk hell god? It’s something else. Anyway, I’m pretty sure Illyria seduced Wes that night. Like, Illyria as Illyria. They’ve been kind of together since, and he doesn’t react so badly when Fred pops up now.”

Buffy pulled her copper curls up into a messy ponytail, considering. “I think I get that. He used to see Illyria and Fred as two different people.” Her mouth twisted ruefully. “But it’s not that simple.”

“Right.” Willow made a small, dismayed noise. “Oh, Buffy. What got ahold of you already?”

“Huh?” Buffy glanced over in the mirror; Spike’s bite marks were on full display. “Oh. Um, nothing I didn’t want to get hold.”

Willow looked baffled for a moment, then she blushed up to the roots of her hair. “Oh.” She gave Buffy a sideways look. “That’s… a change.”

Buffy raised a brow. “You were all with the advice giving when I was just Meg and now you’re being weirdly mum about the whole thing.”

Willow anxiously fiddled with a nearby piece of chainmail. “I mean, I don’t get it, and I have no idea how you went from before to now.”

“But?”

Willow wouldn’t meet her eyes. “But, after everything, I think me trying to tell you what to do with your love life is sort of adding insult to injury. If Spike makes you happy then… well, I’m just going to butt right out.”

Buffy stepped forward to touch Willow’s hand. “Thank you.” Her lips twitched. “But you’re still really curious, aren’t you.”

Willow looked up with a small laugh. “Practically dying over here.”

Buffy suppressed a sudden yawn. “Okay, well, how about we grab some coffee and I’ll tell you a little? Without caffeine, I’m not going to make it much further into the save-the-world planning, anyway.”

“There’s a keurig upstairs.”

“Perfect.”

 

***

 

Coffee in hand and half gone, Buffy let the caffeine rush guide her tongue. “It was freeing to be a sort of normal girl, and even just a Potential. I didn’t have to care that he was a vampire anymore. It wasn’t my job to care. I could be selfish and just like  _him_. And Spike, even with a large streak of idiotic assholery, has a lot for a girl to like.” She paused. “Faith tried to convince me way back that being the Slayer meant taking what I wanted. But the thing is, it was never like that for me as Buffy Summers. Being the Slayer was all about giving things away, or losing them. I gave away my first love and sent Angel to hell. I gave away my life and saved Dawn. I lost heaven to come back and be the Slayer again.”

Willow winced. “I know it doesn’t fix anything, but did I mention how sorry I am?”

Buffy shrugged. “I’m not saying it to rub salt in your wounds, Wil. I’m just trying to explain how it felt to not be the Slayer for a while.”

Willow frowned over her coffee. “But now you are again. And Spike’s still a vampire.”

“Yes, but he’s not exactly the same vampire. More importantly, I’m not the same Slayer.”

Willow’s lips quirked. “You’re muchier... you’ve gained muchness.”

Buffy laughed. “Is that from something?”

“A twist on something the Mad Hatter tells Alice,” Willow said lightly. “I used to read  _Alice in Wonderland_  to Maddy a lot when she was little.” Willow’s eyes widened. “Oh goddess. Do you know about Maddy?”

Buffy nodded, her throat tightening. “She’s one of Dawn’s kids, right?”

Willow nodded. “Her youngest. She has a little boy, too; Eli. Do you… have you told Dawn about you?”

“Provided I make it through our debt-collecting demon problem, Spike and I are planning to visit her in January and break the news.” Buffy set down her coffee cup. “Speaking of family, Spike said you have ways to protect the Slayer’s family?”

Willow nodded. “Absolutely. But you don’t need to worry about Dawnie. I’ve had her and her family warded for years.”

“I didn’t mean Dawnie.”

“Oh!” Willow flushed with embarrassment. “Right. Your new family.” She gave Buffy a reassuring smile. “As soon as we’re done in Cairo, I’ll go to…”

“Connecticut.”

“Connecticut,” Willow agreed, “and put the wards in place myself.”

Buffy felt a weight lift from her chest. “Thanks, Wil.”

 

***

 

By the time they arrived back at the conference room again, someone had pulled out a smartboard, and Wesley was seated at his computer directing images on the screen as Giles and Spike scribbled. Illyria sat at the far end of the table not paying any attention to the men; her focus was entirely on the potted plant in the corner.

“What in the world is she doing?”

Willow snorted a laugh. “Um, she’s talking to the plant.”

Buffy blinked. “Is it talking back?”

“I think so.” Willow sighed. “Apparently, taking away some of her power also stunted her plant language abilities, so she says she can only understand about half of the replies she gets. Another thing she blames me for.”

Buffy laid her weaponry on the table. “And to believe I once thought Sunnydale had the market on the majorly weird.”

“Weird’s the only constant the world round, pet,” was the sudden, vampiric rumble by her ear as cool hands slid around her hips.

Buffy leaned back into Spike’s embrace, her breath exhaling gratefully as he took some of her weight off her tired muscles. “How goes the strategizing?”

“For a half-cocked plan, it’s not half bad.” Lips nibbled at her earlobe, sending electric jolts down into her lower belly. “This suit looks good on you, Slayer,” he growled.

“I feel like a Marvel superhero. It’s very Black Widow-y, don’t you think?”

“That bint doesn’t have anything on you.”

“Oh, please. That ‘bint’ is played by Scarlett Johansson. She’s got like four bra sizes and a Marilyn Monroe body on me.”

The growl grew louder. “I don’t give a toss what kind of body she has.” Spike’s left hand slid down to her thigh. “Only body I want is yours. No matter what that looks like.”

Buffy’s breath caught as his fingers made teasing circles against her clothed skin. “You say that now. But watch me transmigrate again and become someone you don’t find attractive.”

Spike’s hand wandered farther up her thigh. “Impossible.”

A loud throat clearing paused Spike’s further progression.

“If you two would refrain from groping one other for a moment,” Giles said with impressive evenness, “I believe we’re ready to go over the plan.”

Buffy broke away from Spike’s embrace with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Giles.”

Giles sighed and turned to Wesley. “You do realize allowing a Watcher to be romantically entangled with his Slayer was forbidden with very good reason.”

Wesley just lifted a brow. “Please, forbid away. Be my guest.”

Giles grimaced. “Good lord. This is how you felt years ago, isn’t it?”

Wesley fixed on an innocent expression. “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”

Giles sighed again and slumped into his chair, sending Spike a narrow glare. “Just keep it in your trousers until Buffy is safe.”

Spike smirked. “Rupert, if I did that, I’d be sodding celibate.” His expression turned devilish. “And there’s a lot to be said for a spot of… stress relief.”

Buffy smacked his shoulder. “What did I say about innuendo in front of Giles?”

Spike continued smirking but obediently stopping baiting her ex-Watcher. The vampire slid into a nearby chair, dragging Buffy down onto his lap. “On with the plan, yeah?”

Wesley nodded from his computer. “You can do the honors, Spike. She’s your Slayer, after all.”

Surprise flashed across Spike’s face before he recovered. He straightened in his seat (as well as he could with Buffy on his lap), and his expression shifted to the scholarly gaze she was becoming more and more familiar with. “Right then. Since Blue and I aren’t affected by the demon, we’ll go in first through the portal and do a touch of reconnaissance.”

Buffy drew in a sharp breath, panic piercing her chest. “Recon  _only_.”

Spike brushed a soothing hand down her side. “That’s what I said, luv.” He glanced over at the smartboard. “Provided our hell beastie is still waiting as expected, we’ll come back to where you and Willow’ll be waiting, and we’ll all head back through. The local Cairo coven will be stationed just by the doorway to keep it from opening wider and to deal with anything that leaks through.”

Giles cleared his throat. “They’re also the second line of defense, in case we are… unsuccessful.”

Buffy frowned. “We? Giles, you’re not going to be there, are you? You’re the one who told me that you’re too old for the field.”

“Rupert and I will remain with the Cairo coven by the portal,” Wesley clarified, “monitoring as best we can from there.”

Spike turned to Willow, his mien grave and hard. “Wil, once we get in that doorway, your job is to keep Buffy under your protection. I don’t give a flying fuck what’s happening with me or Blue.  _You keep her safe_ , do you hear me?”

Willow nodded, her jaw set with determination. “I'll keep her safe.”

Buffy nibbled her lip. “So you, me, and Illyria will take on Ammit?”

“No,” Illyria said, before he could reply. Everyone looked at her.

Spike frowned. “You were fine with it a few minutes ago.”

“There will be no ‘taking on,’” Illyria said sharply. “It implies a chance of failure. And that is an unacceptable conclusion. We will lay waste to this Devourer.”

Giles raised a brow. “Well, you must admire her confidence,” he murmured.

Buffy peered at the different flanking combinations shown on the smartboard. “What about the fact that Ammit is likely to be after me in particular?”

“Well, I’d just say that you aren’t coming with, pet,” Spike said tightly. “But you wouldn’t bloody listen.”

“Nope. I wouldn’t. It’s my job.”

Spike sighed. “I know, Slayer. So, between Wil on bodyguard duty and the three of us hacking away, we should be able to keep the beastie occupied until we can off her.” He nodded toward Illyria. “Blue says to go for her eyes and under her arms.”

“Oh joy. All the easy-to-reach places on a monster.”

Giles’s lips twitched as he looked pointedly at Spike. “That’s where the fun begins, didn’t you say?”

Spike grinned. “That I did, Rupes. It’s going to be a jolly bloody time.”

Willow smiled wryly. “And just in time for the Christmas season.”

Wesley gazed at the smartboard, where the hieroglyphic image of Ammit was projected. “Nothing says ‘happy Christmas’ like an impending apocalypse.”


	23. The Calm Before the Apocalypse

Buffy woke with a moaning exhale as Spike’s tongue swept slowly back and forth across her clit. It seemed her vampire had recovered from the prevent-an-apocalypse planning haze of exhaustion.

They’d collapsed into their hipster’s paradise hotel room just before dawn, and Buffy had barely mustered the energy to strip off her clothes before climbing into bed and into Spike’s arms. Arms that now had her legs draped over them, the adjoining hands cupping her ass and kneading the muscles with just enough force to make her quiver.

The first time Spike had woken her like this—in her parents’ house on Thanksgiving morning—had apparently been a herald of things to come, as she'd found herself waking in a similar fashion several times a week since then. 

“This is getting to be a habit,” Buffy mumbled without opening her eyes. 

“As it should be,” Spike growled, pressing a fervent kiss to her folds. “My delicious, deadly firebrand.”

Buffy shuddered in pleasure and opened her eyes, expecting to see Spike’s face rapt with the usual languid lust. Instead, his stare was intent and dark, verging on desperate. She pulled herself up onto her elbows. “Spike? What’s wrong?”

Spike’s jaw tightened and he turned his gaze back down to her pussy. “I need you,” he said hoarsely, with an urgent edge. His muscles were trembling slightly and the angles of his face were odd, as if he’d stopped himself just a millisecond before shifting to vamp face.

It wasn’t hard to guess why he was nearly coming apart at the seams. In less than four hours—maybe half that (she had little idea of the time now, except that the sun was falling brightly against the curtains of their west-facing window), they would be on their way to Cairo to face the first real Big Bad of Meg Gallagher’s slaying career. A Big Bad who had a special interest in seeing that she didn’t stay alive. And now as her Watcher, Spike had a doubled interest in making sure Ammit didn’t succeed—and likely a doubled amount of fear that the demon would.

Buffy spread her legs wider, shifting forward farther into Spike’s grip. “Take me,” she murmured. “Any way you want.”

Spike’s gaze snapped up to her, some of the desperate sheen fading into devilish mischief. “Any way?” At her nod, he cocked his head and ran his tongue over his teeth. “That’s a dangerous thing to offer, luv.”

Buffy’s mouth drew a crooked line. “Danger and me? Best pals. Lovers, even.”

Spike’s eyes glittered, the bones grating in his face as he shifted. “Oh, there’s no ‘even’ about it, pet.” His fingers flexed around her asscheeks and a low growl rumbled from his chest. Then, to her complete bafflement, he lifted her legs off his arms, slid backward off the bed, and started rummaging around in their suitcase on the floor.

Huh?

“That was really not where I thought this conversation was leading,” Buffy said slowly, trying and failing to keep the disappointment from her voice.

Spike snorted, his attention still on whatever the hell he was looking for in the suitcase—no speck of which he needed to screw her silly, so it couldn’t be that freaking important. After a few more seconds, he made a small noise of victory and smirked in her direction, waving a bottle of lubricant. Buffy’s pulse jumped to pounding and a deep throb took up in her lower belly. Okay, so maybe there was one thing he needed from the suitcase.

Spike prowled back to the bed and grabbed her legs, pulling her so that her limbs curved up his chest and over his shoulders. He ran his hands slowly up her thighs, his eyes intent on the trembling rise and fall of her chest.

“Relax, luv.”

Buffy drew in a deep breath and nodded. With her leading their sexual explorations, they’d only gone as far as a few fingers in her ass since Thanksgiving, but she had the feeling that wasn’t what was on the agenda for tonight. Her breath hitched as one of Spike's thumbs stroked her clit, the other wandering up to tease her nipples into hard peaks.

“That’s it, Slayer,” he said in a hard-edged purr, swirling her clit with the pad of his finger in the way that always made her whimper for more, “get that cunt nice and wet for me so I can fuck it proper before I stick my dick in your tight little arsehole.”

Buffy arched into his touch, achingly empty and dying to filled—anywhere, everywhere. “Spike, please.” She licked her lips. “I can take it. Slayer powers again now, remember?”

Spike swallowed, amber eyes flashing. “Impossible to forget, Buffy. But this isn’t something I’m going to hurry.” He curled his tongue behind his front teeth in his usual, damningly sexy leer. “Want you to like it so you’ll let me do it again.”

Buffy raised a brow, struggling to look imperious as his hands made her writhe. “Or let me do it to you, as I recall.”

“Oh, pet, you have standing permission to do me,” he murmured, pinching her clit just slightly and sending her mewling into orgasm. As her pussy fluttered, he slid his cock into it, and they both moaned.

Spike set a powerful but controlled pace; a slow slide of skin that left her convulsing and mewling for more each time he withdrew and plunged back in. She caught the snick of the lube bottle opening in between one consuming thrust and another, and cool liquid was slathered over her asshole shortly thereafter. For several minutes, Spike just let his fingers tease her rear opening as he continued thrusting, the extra stimulation sending her spiraling into a second orgasm. When she was nearly boneless and profoundly glad Spike was holding up her legs so she didn’t have to, he withdrew from her entirely and she felt a pointed nudge against her lower hole.

“Just stay loose, pet,” Spike said soothingly as he slowly pushed his way past the band of outer muscle. Buffy clutched the comforter, but carefully kept her lower muscles relaxed as he entered her inch by inch and made her full in a place she’d never expected to be full in. “That’s right, just like that. Let me in now.” He groaned as he sank in lower. “ _Fuck_.”

Spike’s cock felt far more intrusive than his fingers had, but it was touching nerves that his fingers had never reached; when he pulled back just slightly and slid in again with careful speed, Buffy gasped at the swell of white-hot pleasure that accompanied the motion.

“What,” she managed, “is that?”

Spike’s grin was even more predatory looking than usual in his demon face. “Feels good?”

“Uh… huh.”

Another maddeningly slow withdraw and thrust that left her throbbing. “Did no one tell you the best orgasms come from anal, pet?”

It took almost more effort than she could manage to be annoyed at his smug tone. “Why the hell didn’t  _you_  tell me?”

“What, and ruin the surprise?” Spike smirked, though the expression slipped into helpless rapture as he thrust back inside her. “God, Buffy, you’re so bloody tight.”

“Mmhm,” she moaned, finding herself beyond words.

“A bit faster?”

“Faster,” she confirmed in a gasp.

“Frig yourself for me, luv.”

Her fingers obediently wandered down to her swollen clit, stroking herself in time with Spike's thrusts. They settled into a rolling, steady rhythm that had Buffy shuddering into orgasm again—the pleasure radiating all the way up her spine and into the back of her head. Spike didn’t let her recover; his fingers wandered to her pussy and slipped inside, curling against her in cadence with his cock. The walls between the spaces were thin enough that she could feel the bump and slide of one against the other, touching everything that could possibly be touched.

“Oh god. Oh god, oh god,  _oh god_.” Her keening was probably disturbing the entire hotel floor by now, but she was completely past caring.

“You feel like heaven,” Spike groaned. “Christ, Buffy, I’d live in your cunt and your arse forever if I could.”

“That would be,” she gasped, “very inconvenient for slaying.”

Spike choked out hoarse laughter, his muscles strained and his fangs biting into his lower lip as he unfathomably sought to hold off his own completion.

“What do you need?”

“Need to…” He snarled helplessly. “Need to… fuck, just  _need you_.” Thankfully, she didn’t have to find the vocal ability to ask how in the world he thought he didn’t have her when he was currently finger-fucking her  _and_  screwing her in the ass; Spike turned his head so that his fangs were pressed against her leg just above her ankle, and it was suddenly very clear.

“Do it. Just…”

Spike’s breath was harsh, strangled against her skin. “Just?”

“If this kills me,” she said, her breath exhaling in a moan between Spike’s thrusts, “you have to tell everyone… you bagged your third Slayer some way… that can actually go in the Council histories without… turning the thing x-rated.”

Spike grinned and twisted his next thrust in a way that made her whimper. “But just think how it might spice up those dusty annals.”

Buffy wrinkled her nose as her back arched. “Don’t say... ah... ‘dusty annals’ when you’re inside me.”

Spike’s amber eyes twinkled and he paused in his thrusts, to her mewl of protest. “How about: you make me want to burn the heavens blood red in your name and bring the angels to account for daring think they’re higher than you, my brilliant goddess of a Slayer?”

Heat rose in her cheeks, turning her already-flushed skin bright red. Damn poet. How could he even form that coherent of a sentence right now? “Um, that one’s okay.”

Spike’s grin held as he fervently kissed her ankle and resumed plunging in and out of her. His eyes fluttered shut with a tortured groan as she clenched her pussy around his fingers, the motion mirrored by her ass muscles. “ _Fucking hell_.” He incoherently snarled something else, then the prick of fangs against her flesh became a sharp, latching bite, more painful than the ones on her neck and lanced through with a blissful heat that wound up her limb and flashed through her triply-penetrated body all the way to the bite marks at her neck. She screamed her way into god-only-knew-what-number orgasm. Spike followed her with a roar as the world washed out into pleasure. Buffy was still shuddering through aftershocks when Spike slipped from her and gently lowered her legs to the comforter before collapsing next to her.

“Wow,” she breathed. “I can’t feel my legs.”

Spike chuckled unevenly, his face back in its human mask as he tugged her against his chest, cooling marble against her sweating skin. “Can’t feel my prick,” he muttered admiringly. “Think you squeezed all the feeling right out of it.”

“That had better come back.”

Spike grinned, lifting her chin to kiss her thoroughly; his cock stirred against her thigh, and he pulled away. “That’ll do it.”

Buffy groaned and dropped her head down against his shoulder. “Alright, Mr. I-just-had-Slayer-blood. Hate to tell you, but your partner needs a few more minutes. And like two showers.”

A shadow passed over Spike’s face, and he glanced toward the window. The light looked dimmer than when she’d woken. Damn.

Buffy sighed. “We don’t have any more time, do we?”

“Not enough.”

She stroked Spike's cheek, smiling faintly as he nuzzled against her touch. “Did it help, at least?”

His brows rose. “The shagging?”

“Yeah.”

He kissed her palm soundly. “It helped more than I can say.” He hesitated. “For you, too, luv?”

“I wasn’t the one–” she started, then stopped. Tension that had been living coiled and ominous in her chest was gone, as absent as the feeling in most of her lower body. “Yeah,” she finished softly. “For me, too.”

Spike waggled his brows. “Good. I’ll add it to the Slayer handbook.”

Buffy look at him incredulously. “The handbook? There’s an actual handbook? I thought Giles was just joking with me in Sunnydale.”

“Dunno if there was one originally, but Wes and Wil wrote one and stuck it in Google Docs where every Watcher can access it and add suggestions and changes and such.”

“Good grief. The magical age of the internet, I guess.” Buffy narrowed her eyes. “And don’t you dare put anything about our sex life in there.”

“Oi, I’d make it generic-like. You know, ‘a bit of shagging before battle is good for a Slayer’s constitution’ or some such.”

“If that was just ‘a bit of shagging,’ then I’m just ‘sort of strong for my size.’”

Spike chuckled, his blue eyes mirthful and sated. He glanced down at her legs. “How’re you feeling? Made sure to get your saphenous vein, so the bite’s not deep.”

Buffy blinked. “My what?”

Spike’s lips quirked and he sat up to draw a long, teasing line from the bite mark on her ankle all the way up her inner thigh, which quivered with desire even though she could barely move it. “That’s your great saphenous vein, luv. Longest vein in the body. It’s pretty superficial, so it’s easy to bite at without causing muscle damage.” His fingers slid back to circle the twin punctures on her ankle, leaving a tingle where he touched. “Hurts more than most places though, since you don’t have much padding on top of the bone.”

“Like getting a tattoo,” Buffy mused.

Spike lifted a brow. “I suppose so.”

Buffy eyed her new bite marks thoughtfully. “Can vampires even get tattoos? Angel had one, but I never knew if he had that before he was turned or not; he never told me.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Big surprise there. And yeah, Angelus got it sometime after he was turned and sometime before the Scourge, as part of his eternal crusade to mock his Catholic god. He explained it once, something to do with the bloody Kells lion being the power of the Almighty, which he then decided to wrap around the signifier for his name in one of those signature, subtle moves the git was so well-known for."

Buffy's mouth fell open. "Wait. Angelus had an eternal crusade to mock god?"

Spike’s brow furrowed. “Well, yeah. It was kind of Angelus’s thing.” His face darkened. “Why did you think he considered what he did to Dru—an innocent about to take her vows and become a voice of that god—to be one of his great masterpieces?”

"I..." Buffy's voice trailed off, her mind whirling with sudden, terrible certainty. “I never really knew him at all, did I?”’

Spike shrugged, settling back down next to her. “You knew what Angel wanted you to know, luv.”

Buffy sighed, lifting her hands to contemplate them. They were long-fingered and strong—a Slayer’s hands again, but in no way mistakable for Buffy Summers’s hands. “I’m glad I’m not her anymore.”

Spike cocked his head. “I’ve loved you both ways, Buffy.” He paused, looking rueful. “Though I can’t say I’m sorry you’re a version that loves me now, too.”

“All the more reason to keep this version alive for a while, huh?”

Spike growled at her, his eyes flashing. “I didn’t need any more reason.” He glanced toward the window again; it was substantially darker out now.

“Almost time to save the world?”

“Almost.” He brushed a copper curl away from her face. “Just do me a favor and don’t jump through any hell portals this time, yeah?”

Buffy’s lips quirked. “I’ll do you one better and avoid dancing to death, too.”

Spike snorted. “Happily, I don’t think Ammit is going to be singing any bloody showtunes.”

“What language do you think she even speaks?”

“Fuck if I know, pet. And I don’t frankly care. Only things I want to hear from her are her screams as she fucking dies.”

And Spike called  _her_  bloodthirsty. Still…

Buffy shrugged and rose from the bed, her mind's eye flicking to the trio of Slayer-attuned weapons waiting back at Council Headquarters. “I think that can be arranged.”


	24. The Belly of the Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a couple lines adapted from AtS S5.17

It was nearly midnight in Cairo, and foot traffic was thankfully low in their particular corridor of Khan el-Khalili—one of the major bazaars in the center of the city. Buffy stood with her back to a wall of copper plates; a blazing forest of chandeliers and lanterns was to her left, and precarious mountains of leather goods wobbled to her right. The vendors and nearby soldiers had been paid to ignore the presence of their odd band—probably with far more money than Buffy wanted to imagine—since only the local coven (a half dozen witches dressed head to toe in loose gowns with dark hijabs) and the three local Watchers (two men and a woman—all similarly, conservatively dressed) looked like they belonged.

The London crew was a mismatch of tweed, khaki, black leather, and whatever in the world Illyria’s armor was made from—although Willow had ensured that the god, Buffy, and herself were wearing long skirts and sleeved blouses over their war attire. Even still, Buffy apparently looked interesting enough for a younger guy to stop and smirkingly ask in broken English how many camels she’d cost. Luckily for the guy, he was standing far enough away that Buffy had time to grab Spike and tug him back before the scene ended in bloodshed. Spike snarled, flashing fangs, and the man went running.

Buffy traded a look with Willow afterward, Spike fuming as he paced beside her, glaring at anything male within eyesight. “He was joking, right? With the camels thing?”

“Um. Sort of?” Willow scrunched up her nose. “It’s like this area’s version of catcalling.” She shrugged ruefully. “If you weren’t covering your suit, it could have been a lot worse.”

“What, they’d have asked my worth in cats? Because I’d be worth a lot of cats. Like twenty, at least.”

Willow’s eyes sparkled. “Thirty, even.”

Luckily, their presence in the bazaar had been otherwise mostly ignored as they huddled by one of the market’s tall sandstone walls—home to the wayward dimensional portal. It was nothing like the portal Willow had opened to transport them to the desert—a block of crimson that crackled with power and presence. Going through it had been nauseating and yet weirdly comfortable, as if every molecule of her had been encased in Willow-ness. This doorway, by comparison, was nearly translucent, a faint flicker of oval lightning in front of the tall sandstone wall; easily ignored if not for the slight, hissing pull of gravity that sent tendrils into the cool surrounding air.

Illyria and Spike had already been through the doorway and back again without catching sight of Ammit. There was the brief panic that the demon had already somehow broken free of her shackles, but when a magical check confirmed that she was still bound—if only barely—Wesley met Buffy’s gaze with a grave, “It seems she simply had no interest in their presence.”

Wasn’t hard to guess exactly whose presence the demon  _would_  be interested in.

Buffy gave Spike a pointed look as they made their last preparations. “You know this is a hell portal, right? The thing you asked me not to go through?”

Spike glared at her. “It’s not a hell portal. Hell portal’s on the other side of this.” His glare deepened at the smile she wasn’t concealing well. “And if you keep smirking at me, I’ll bite you.”

“Been there, done that, really not seeing the threat.”

Spike’s eyes glittered. “Doesn’t have to feel good, Slayer.”

Buffy managed an unconcerned shrug. “Well, then you’ll just lose your biting privileges entirely.”

Spike stepped closer, his voice a harsh purr against her lips, his hands reaching forward to caress her hips. “Yeah? Gonna punish me otherwise, too?” His tongue snaked behind his teeth. “Treat me like a real bad boy?”

Buffy rolled her eyes even as a frisson of desire shivered through her. “We’re about sixty seconds from world save-age and you’re thinking of _that_?”

Spike shrugged, looking entirely unrepentant and eying her lips with predatorial focus. “Well, yeah.” Wesley pointedly cleared his throat, and Spike sighed, stepping back. “What is it, Oxford?"

Wesley nodded brusquely toward them. “It’s time.”

Buffy drew in a deep breath; the air was swimming warm spices, sandalwood, and dust. “You have my weapons?”

“Here, my dear,” Giles said from behind her, a long piece of rolled canvas in his arms. He glanced around briefly before laying it on the ground and unrolling it, revealing her trio of blades, as well as a pair of long swords for Illyria, and an axe that Spike seemed attached to.

Willow stepped forward with a small smile. “And I have something a bit extra, too.” She held out what looked like a half dozen miniature hockey pucks. “They’re specialized detonators. If you press the red button on the bottom and throw them, they’ll stick to whatever surface they land on. You’ll have about five seconds before they detonate once they’re activated.”

Buffy’s laughed. “Remembering the mayor, huh?”

Willow grinned. “The more firepower, the better. Just, uh, don’t be near them when they explode.”

“From a distance. Got it.”

Illyria stepped forward, a sleek blue shadow—her loose coverings already discarded—and plucked two of the bombs from Willow’s hand with a disdainful sniff. “Primitive technologies.”

Willow rolled her eyes as she parceled out the last four detonators to Buffy and Spike. “Yes, we’re basically apes living in boxes, I know.” Her voice had the edge of well-worn conversation.

Buffy carefully studied the sleek, feather-light bombs resting on her palm. “Primitive compared to what exactly?”

Illyria fixed her with an inhuman stare. “Thousands of worlds.” Her head tilted slightly. “I have seen places you cannot imagine, One. Worlds of smoke and half truths; worlds of torment and unnamable beauty, where destruction as you name it is no better than your child’s play; worlds where existence means inexorable agony.” A slight frown drew down her brow. “And one world with nothing but shrimp. I tired of that one quickly.”

Buffy blinked at her, a long ago trickle of memory seeping through. Hadn’t Anya said something about worlds with or without shrimp once upon a time?

“But,” Illyria continued, bending her face toward the desert sky and sounding slightly baffled, “even so paltry and weak, humans are continually surprising creatures.”

“That’s the art of war, luv,” Spike drawled. “Don’t need to be strong if you’re clever.”

Buffy hefted her sabre with an arch look. “And some of us are both.”

Spike ran a suggestive hand down his t-shirted chest. “Right you are, Slayer.”

Giles gave Wesley a pained look. “Shall we get on with things before the size of the egos present suffocates us all?”

Buffy buried her smile under cover of stripping off her blouse and skirt, strapping the sawtooth dagger into the holster at her waist and swinging the sabre into the sheath strapped across her back. The spear she kept in hand. “If egos could suffocate, Giles, the hellmouth would have been unbreathable, with all the ‘I am the greatest demon ever!’ crap.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “The place was just crawling with pompous wannabe evil-doers.”

“And actual doers,” Willow added. “Let’s not forget all the doing that happened.”

“Yeah, it did all over my clothes,” Buffy grumbled, ignoring the leer Spike sent her way. “But, hey, if I get to wear this suit a lot, my wardrobe this time around is going to be  _so_  much better off.”

Willow beamed. “You wouldn’t believe how many other girls have said the exact same thing. Minus the ‘this time around’ part.”

Something twisted in Buffy’s stomach, and her lightened mood fell. “How many were there?”

“Huh?”

“Between me and… me. How many Slayers?”

“After Faith, there were seven,” Wesley said quietly.

God, that seemed like a lot. So many girls.

As if reading her mind, Willow added softly, “The lifespan average used to be right around a year and a half, so we’re… we’re sitting a lot better than we used to.”

“And going to sit a lot better yet,” Spike growled, slipping his free right hand into Buffy’s left one as she eyed the dimensional doorway. Spike’s skin, while still cooler than human temperature, was currently warm by vampiric standards—flush with borrowed blood. There hadn’t been time for Spike to grab an actual bite after they retrieved Giles, but there were apparently always packets of O positive on hand at the Council headquarters for the night crew. Spike had heated up three and gulped them all down, fixing her with a determined blue glare. “Not going to let anything happen to you.”

Buffy had just kissed him in reply, the metallic tang that lingered on his lips passing to hers.

And now, a breath away from stepping through the dimensional doorway, she couldn’t help but add, “Spike, if something does happen to me, it won’t be your fault.”

Spike’s fingers tightened painfully around hers. “Shut your gob.”

“I mean it.”

A quiet snarl tore from his throat. “So do I.” He glanced back at Willow, jaw clenched. “You ready with the mystical armor what-not, Red?”

Willow nodded. “As much as I can be.”

“Blue, you ready to off a rival?”

Illyria stretched her lips into a dangerous smile. “Yes.”

“Brilliant. Onward we go then.”

Giles caught Spike’s shoulder before he could step forward, a flash of Ripper in his eyes. “Remember your duty.”

An edge of Spike’s mouth quirked up. “Haven’t forgotten it in twenty years, Rupes, not likely to start now. It’s seared in the place where my soul used to be.”

Buffy’s brow furrowed. “Duty?” Both men looked at her pointedly. “Oh.” She rolled her eyes. “Could you two be more overprotective?”

Giles regarded her ruefully, his eyes looking suspiciously shiny. “After all this time, to have you back… I’m loath to see you disappear again.”

Buffy leaned over and pecked his cheek. “I love you, you know. Still. Very much. Love you.”

Giles flushed deeply red and stepped back. “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat, not quite meeting her eyes—she suspected because they were on the verge of leaking. “Wesley and I and the others will be waiting.”

Buffy nodded and allowed Spike to steer her forward into the portal, the action made all the weirder for the fact that she was essentially stepping into the sandstone wall at the same time. Willow had warned her that the doorway was essentially a shadow realm—a place just slightly out of phase with their own—and it did indeed seem… shadowed. One moment she was in the dim, golden bazaar and in the next the world was washed into murky blue half-light. Everything was slightly blurred and faded into near translucence, ghostlike and transient. She could see for maybe five hundred feet in each direction, every layer of the city exposed through the other: she looked back through the now window-like pane of wall, through the shadowed haze of human figures, through the vendors’ stalls, through the silhouettes of cars rushing down the heavily trafficked street and beyond until her vision fell into gloom. Their small party was shockingly solid by comparison, skin and inherent colors violently opaque.

“It’s like a real-life  _Pleasantville_ , and we’re the only ones in Technicolor,” Willow murmured, stretching out a hand to the wall near the portal. Her fingers passed through it like air.

Spike raised a brow. “What was that you were saying about worlds of smoke, Blue?”

Illyria regarded their surroundings with casual disinterest. “Nothing like this shadow place, though there are many of this ilk, as well. Passageways from one place to another. I roamed them at my leisure.”

Buffy glanced around, her skin crawling at the all-encompassing silence. At least that meant they’d hear Ammit coming, right? “How big is this place?”

Willow’s nose wrinkled. “Sort of infinite.” She took a deep breath. “No sign of our friendly, neighborhood demon, but I’m going to start the armor spell now, just in case. It’s a concentration spell, so you can speak to me, but I’m going to be a little too busy to reply. Any questions before then?”

Buffy’s gaze caught on the farthest visible horizon to her left, where the air seemed to pulse ominously in shades of deep blue. “Just one.” She pointed at the disturbance. “What’s that?”

“ _That’s_  the portal you bloody well stay away from,” Spike growled. “And–”

His words were cut off, buried beneath a high-pitched shriek so loud that it vibrated the air.

Spike winced, releasing Buffy’s hand to massage his ears. “Bloody hell. Looks like our hostess realized she was late for the party. Better get on that spell, Wil.”

Willow nodded. “On it.” She started chanting loudly and melodically, quickly drowned out by a second, even louder screech, though her words didn’t falter. A tingling warmth spread through Buffy’s veins and her sense of the atmosphere grew quieter, as if it had to pass through a membrane to reach her skin.

At the third scream, Illyria restlessly twirled her swords, setting off in the direction of the hell portal and the sound. “I desire this noise to be gone.”

Buffy raised a brow before following, Spike a step behind her. “She takes decisive to a whole new level.”

“Yeah,” Spike agreed with a puff of amusement. “Makes you look right even-keeled, doesn’t she?”

“Oh, shut up.”

They hadn’t gone more than a hundred steps before Ammit came barreling into view. It was easy to see why the ancient Egyptians had styled her as they had—her snout was somewhat narrow and the shape of her eyes had a distinctly reptilian edge; her legs were powerful, sinuous trunks held up by thick flanks; and lion-like tufts of reddish brown hair jutted up in high patches. But that was really the end of her resemblance to the predators of the Nile. Everything else about her was distinctly _other_ , from the almost suffocating gravity of her massive presence—which would have likely been actually suffocating if not for Willow’s magic—to the green mucus dripping from her pores. But it was her eyes that really caught Buffy’s attention: golden, nearly glowing, and unblinkingly fixed on her.

The demon let out another shriek—high enough to break glass, if there had been any—and charged.

Illyria, Spike, and Buffy felt into their pre-discussed formation, with Buffy at the front to keep Ammit’s attention (and hopefully poke out an eye or two with her spear) while Illyria and Spike went for the tender parts at the junction of her thighs and belly. Except the flanking was immediately broken when Illyria stumbled backward with a gasp, her swords dropping from her hands. Ammit happily aimed a vicious bite in Buffy’s general direction; only a quick sideways leap saved Buffy’s head, putrid breath skating along the top of her head.

“Really not the best time for cold feet,” Buffy snapped at the god as she retreated backward, fingers clenched around her spear.

Illyria ignored her, furiously glaring at Ammit. “You shall not take this shell from me, impudent thief!”

Spike grunted as Ammit swept a talon in his direction, his axe painting a long gash on the demon's foot. “What’s the trouble over there, Blue?”

Illyria clawed at her chest and stumbled farther away from Ammit, gasping for air. “She tries to take parts from me.”

Understanding hit. Something of Fred must have survived Illyria’s invasion, something human that Ammit’s presence was trying to devour.

“Illyria, get away from her,” Buffy demanded, rolling away from an enraged and vicious swipe of Ammit’s claws.

Illyria made an enraged hissing noise as she shuddered and fell to her knees, her arms reaching for her swords. “I will not flee.”

Wonderful. A suicidally stubborn god. That was exactly what they needed right now. Buffy turned back toward Willow, who was standing about forty feet away, solemnly chanting with her arms stretched wide, a faint red halo around her form. “Wil,” she shouted, “can you protect Illyria, too?”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then a jerky shake of Willow’s head; ‘no.’

Great.

Spike landed a sharp blow to the back of one of Ammit’s knees as the demon lunged in Buffy’s direction, and Spike grinned as she roared her displeasure. “That’s right, beastie. Gonna have to get through me to touch the Slayer.”

Ammit’s tail flipped around—massive and sharply ridged—and caught Spike in the back of the head with a sickening crack. He dropped like a stone, face-first onto the ground, red blooming in his white hair.

“ _Spike_!”

Buffy whimpered as she dodged another taloned blow. Spike had to be okay. He  _had_  to. She desperately wanted to run to him, but there was no real way to reach him that didn’t include an up-close-and-personal situation with Ammit.

 _Oh god_. Everything had gone to hell in a hand basket. Illyria was incapacitated; Spike was down for the count; Willow was occupied just keeping Buffy from being drained. Right. Plan B time. Buffy hedged her bets, flung her spear toward one of Ammit’s reptilian eyes (accompanied by a resulting, incredibly satisfying shriek of pain from the demon), and ran, fumbling with the bombs she’d strapped into her suit belt. The crash of thundering feet sounded behind her, and the ground rattled. She ran faster.

Unfortunately, it appeared Willow’s spell had a range limit, and the witch must not have been keeping up with the Olympian-speed demon and Slayer. Buffy stumbled as a sharp, tearing pain tried to split her abdomen in half.  _Crap crap crap._ Gasping, she forced her legs back into motion, all the life inside her skin buzzing and starting to boil, drawn toward the behemoth directly behind her.

It was only as Buffy fell to her knees—agony ripping through her skull—that she realized she’d fled farther in the direction of the hell portal. It was miniature compared to the one she’d dived into so many years ago—barely a slash above the ground. Maybe wide enough for her to slip into, but definitely not large enough for Ammit. Buffy turned on the ground and faced the demon, crawling backward as her lungs fought for breath. Ammit’s own hot breath gusted toward her from slitted nostrils; death was in the demon’s eyes. No, not death. What had Illyria said happened to the devoured?  _They cease to exist._

Maybe this was it. The answer. The end of nineteen years of life Buffy wasn’t supposed to have had. She would be gone, Osiris would be repaid, and the world would move on.

Still, if she was going down, she was taking Ammit with her. Buffy pushed the red buttons on the detonators and flung both toward the demon; one latched onto Ammit’s neck, one to her chest. Five seconds left. Hopefully Ammit was a fast eater.

“ _Buffy_!”

Buffy’s head snapped up. Spike was sprinting toward her in game face, looking terrified and desperate, with Willow running beside him. Thankfully too far away for the blast to reach them.

Four seconds. There wasn’t enough strength in her limbs to even think of fleeing. Her fate was sealed. But the thought didn’t bring peace, as it had for the two times before. Instead, steely determination surged in her veins. God, she wasn’t ready to be gone for good. Not ready to leave everyone. Not ready to be done as Meg Gallagher.

There wasn’t enough time for her to get clear of the blast—especially with Ammit’s draining power sapping her energy with painful voracity, but…

Buffy glanced at the nearby portal, found a last reserve of energy, and started crawling toward it. She was too far away, she realized achingly. She wasn't going to make it. Then her strength returned with warm suddenness—Willow’s magic apparently back in range. Buffy scrambled to her feet just in time to avoid a death bite from Ammit, the demon’s teeth scraping the leg of her suit instead, thankfully hampered by the tough material.

Two seconds.

It was now or never. Buffy turned and mouthed  _I’m sorry_ at the stricken, sprinting Spike, hoping he could read her lips from far away. Then she leapt into the hell portal. The world exploded behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The catcalling (sometimes related to camels) is a real and semi-common occurrence for many female tourists (along with some more unpleasant forms of harassment). That said, female harassment is certainly not unique to Cairo; it is, as one female tourist put it well, a worldwide issue.


	25. Buffy vs. a Hell Portal, Take 3

Going through the portal hurt like… hell. Twenty years and a new body had dulled the memory of her death via Glory’s portal, but the current encore brought it back in surround sound. Still, it wasn’t exactly the same kind of hurt. Buffy Summers’s jump off the tower had been never-ending, sucking her through every dimension in every universe ever—a blaze of motion and color and nerve-dissolving pain. She’d been dead and halfway to heaven by the time her body fell out the other side.

This shadow dimension portal was one portal to one place—most reminiscent of the portal she’d gone through in L.A. as Anne, though that one had been suspiciously painless (probably because passers-through feeling like a hundred knives were stabbing into their skin would’ve made the whole ‘tricking people into the pool to enslave them’ thing a tad more difficult). Still, the pain didn’t seem to translate into actual injury with this portal, since Buffy was still alive when she tumbled through the other side.

Oh god, she was  _alive_.

But a sharp, relieved inhalation warned Buffy to another problem. She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs fought for oxygen—to no avail. She suspected that there was simply no oxygen to breathe.

Well, this was stupid. She’d survived Ammit and made it through the portal just to suffocate. Her vision turned spotty, the dark landscape of wherever she was careening into heavy, real blackness.

As Buffy slid to her knees, she remembered the functionality Willow had built into her suit. Left wrist. Her right hand blindly found the area, then pushed down and twisted the button at the same time—Willow’s version of a battle safety lock (“If it works for kids, it’ll work for fights,” the witch had said with a small shrug). A nearly translucent hood snapped out of somewhere on the back of Buffy’s collar, whooshing around until it connected with her neck on all other sides, ending up like a very strange, razor thin, upside down goldfish bowl. The space filled with air; Buffy took a thankful gasping set of breaths. As soon as her vision cleared, she turned back toward the portal. If all went as it appeared, Ammit was now spread across the doorway dimension in a million gross pieces, leaving Buffy with the simple task of leaping victoriously back through the portal.

Except the portal was gone. Of  _course_  it was.

In its place was... black rubber? A tire, she realized, her gaze flitting up; the tire to a very large, very sleek jetliner. The looming cockpit was painted like a hawk’s head in front of a blue headdress, with the color extending to the rest of the plane.

Buffy frowned and turned around. Her mouth fell open.

A vast, modern-looking airport stretched behind her, ending only at the edge of the land, where it fell off into a deep, black river so wide that the other side—if there was one—was lost in darkness.

“It is your great fortune to have entered at the gate of the twelfth hour, Chosen of the Heavens,” came a solemn, accented voice from behind her.

Buffy turned on her heel—drawing her sabre when the speaker came into view. An honest-to-god bearded mummy stood before her. His wrappings moved oddly over his frame, as if insects were crawling beneath them.

“Chosen One, that’s me,” she said warily, her voice slightly muffled through the hood. “And you are?”

The mummy smiled, revealing a mouth of— _oh god_ —beetles. Her grip on her sabre tightened.

“I am Akheki, guardian of this last gate.”

“Last gate before what exactly?”

The guardian closed his mouth as he considered her, absentmindedly crunching down on a beetle with a shudder-worthy sound. “You have the glow of it, Warrior.”

“Glow of…” Buffy glanced down, freezing as she saw that she was, in fact, lit up like a Christmas tree. A soft, golden light was emanating from her suit through every pinprick hole, shining into the heavy dark of the hellport runway. “Why am I glowing?”

Akheki gave her another beetle-filled rictus grin. “You are the Warrior of Light, Daughter of Ra, Vessel of the Sun.”

Daughter of Ra? That was a new one. Just how many gods and higher powers had their hands in the Slayer line? “And that’s a literal sun vessel, apparently,” she muttered. She eyed the guardian warily. “So you’re not here to keep me out.”

Akheki shook his head vehemently, scattering a few beetles to the ground. They scuttled in tight circles before crawling back up his desiccated feet. “This is a realm of Ra.” He nodded toward the airplane. “You are welcome here.”

“Really? Your last emissary wasn’t exactly of the same mind.” At his confused expression, she added, “Ammit.”

Akheki’s expression darkened. “A beast of the third hour. Many gates to Duat were breached.” He motioned back toward the dark river. “Far beyond lies the third hour.”

So an ‘hour’ was a place here. Probably. She glanced back to where the portal had been. “Is there a way out of here? Any outgoing flights heading to the human world?”

Akheki gave a sort of creaking gasp that was likely meant to be a laugh. “It is only Ra’s vessel.”

A quick glance around confirmed the statement. For all the length of the gigantic airport, there was indeed only one boarding gate, and only one plane. She eyed the airplane. “I don’t suppose you could drop me off on the way to wherever.”

Akheki’s shriveled demeanor turned solemn beneath his beard. “There is no passage.” He pointed to a small doorway leading into the building near the gate. “You must wait inside, Warrior.”

Unease filtered through her. “As nice as your little hellport oasis looks, I have to get back to my dimension.” She glanced back toward the dark river, apprehension rising. Her Marvel suit’s interdimensional tracker doohickey would likely mean Willow and Spike and the others would be able to find her in Duat, but Buffy doubted the tracker had GPS precision. Would they be able to reach her through whatever lay in the other hours? It was impossible to know. But sitting around waiting? Buffy Summers had never managed it, and Meg Gallagher wasn’t about to even try. She straightened, returning her sabre to its back sheathe and giving the guardian an imperious look—likely not as effective as usual through her hood. “I need to speak with Ra.”

Akheki blinked at her. “It is not done.”

“I don’t care if it’s not done,” Buffy said tightly. “ _Do it_. I’m his daughter, you said? Well, take me to Dad.”

Akheki looked unperturbed. “It is not done,” he repeated. “It cannot be done.”

“Why not?”

“Because Lord Ra is dead.”

“Dead…” Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “Then what’s with the plane and airport?”

“He will return to us in fullness during flight.” Seeing Buffy’s confusion, he continued, “It is the way of the day. At the first hour he will return and journey through the hours again.”

“So Ra dies and is… reborn?” At Akheki’s nod, several pieces clicked into place. “He’s reborn. Like the Slayer.” Like  _her_. “Ra is what makes the Slayer line continue on, isn’t he? He’s that part of us?” Akheki nodded again. “And he… comes through here, through Osiris’s dimension to do it.” Buffy’s mind whirled. “Which is why Willow had to work through Osiris to resurrect me. He opened the gates that Ra usually goes through?”

Ahkeki gave her another beetle-filled grin. “Yes.”

Oh boy. Giles and Wesley were going to have an absolute field day with this information.

Buffy stared down at the glow emanating from her hands. “If I go to any of the other gates, Osiris controls them?”

“Yes.”

Buffy sighed. It looked like the waiting game was going to be part of the Meg Gallagher repertoire, after all. She headed toward the airport door, pausing to look back at the stoic Ahkeki. “If you see anyone else come through here—a vampire, or a witch, or a blue Old One—can you please tell them I’m inside?”

Akheki’s affirmative nod was her last sight before she pushed the door open and went inside the Duat airport.

 

***

 

Buffy was curled up in one of the plastic seats near the iron boarding gate. (Who built all of this? Hell Depot? Very Good Demon Builders TM?). It was a pointless place to sit, really, but most of the other spaces had mirror-like walls—surfaces where her reflection flickered rapid-fire between Buffy Gallagher and Buffy Summers and a thousand other girls all the way back to the First Slayer. It was nauseating.

She had half-expected the airport to be empty, with only one dead god apparently allowed on board the only plane, but it was teeming with serpentine-like demons who seemed to ignore her on principle. They walked upright, sliding along on crocodile-esque tails as they ate and conversed and read and inexplicably waited in the same waiting area that she did. Apparently every airport anywhere was essentially the same, even in a hell.

Fortunately, considering the strange dining options available through the airport restaurants, her body didn’t seem to be reacting the usual way here (glowing aside—though that aspect was mostly unnoticeable under the bright hellport lights). Hunger and sleep, along with other bodily needs, were seemingly non-existent for a Slayer in Duat. There was even oxygen inside the building itself—discovered only when her suit ran  _out_  of oxygen and there had been no choice but to chance it. Less fortunately, demon watching had only been able to fill so many hours, and all the available books appeared to be written in hieroglyphs, which left a lot of hours for her to wonder if she was doomed to spend eternity in an airport that lacked computers and WiFi. Or if this was like the L.A. hell dimension, where a day at home would be a hundred years here. Buffy was pretty sure she’d fall on her sabre before she neared a centennial.

Maybe this hell dimension used boredom to torture—though, if so, it shouldn’t have bothered. The expression of absolute horror and devastation on Spike’s face before Buffy leapt through the portal was enough to make her stomach twist with more agony than boredom could ever hope to muster.

“I’m so sorry, Spike,” she whispered as her eyes fluttered shut, her knees bent up to rest on her chin.

The heavy crackle of lightning flung her eyes open again. A new crimson portal hovered above the ground four seats down. Buffy had no more than risen before Willow, Spike, and Illyria tumbled through it, looking disheveled and bloodied and exhausted. Spike’s gaze zeroed in on hers immediately, his vamped face turning hard and dangerous as he stalked toward her.

“ _You bloody reckless bint_!” he snarled, loud enough to send all the snake demons in the nearby vicinity fleeing. “I’m going to put you in the fucking ground!”

Buffy's knees nearly buckled with relief as she stumbled away from her chair and flung herself at the furious vampire, wrapping herself around him with every ounce of Slayer strength she could muster. “Thank god,” she whispered as she peppered his bloodied and dirt-streaked game face with relieved kisses. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

Spike’s arms banded around her like steel. His entire body was quaking, and he seemed to lose his ability to speak under her touch. “The one thing I asked you not to do,” he whispered hoarsely, when she paused in her kisses to cup his face in her hands. “You bitch.”

Buffy’s breath trembled out in semi-hysterical laughter. “Told you that you have a tendency to fall for them.”

“It’s a sodding curse.” His arms tightened around her until she almost couldn’t breath and his head fell to the side of her neck, his breath gasping in and out as he took in her scent.

“Ammit’s dead, right?”

“That she is,” Spike mumbled against her skin. “You blew her straight to smithereens. Which stank up the entire bloody place, I might add.”

“Sorry.”

He snorted but didn’t otherwise reply, instead rumbling low in his throat as his lips suckled at her neck, his breath still heavy and investigative.

Buffy stroked the back of Spike’s head as he re-explored her, waving weakly to a limping Willow as the witch made her way over to them, relief heavy in her eyes as she wiped a trickle of blood from her nose. “Thank the goddess. I’m not sure I could have opened another portal today.”

Buffy winced. “Hi, Wil. You guys look a little rough.”

“We had to sort of hopscotch around Duat until I found the right place.” Willow huffed out a breath. “Some of the spots around here? Not what I’d call relaxing.” Her gaze darted around the gate waiting area, lingering on the serpentine demons. “Gotta say, though, an airport’s a new one by me.”

Illyria strode forward, looking intrigued as she ran a finger over the back of a plastic chair. “A clever amalgamation.”

Willow’s brows rose. “Amalgamation? Of what?”

“Symbol and flesh.”

Buffy frowned at their surroundings. “So this place isn’t real?”

Illyria glanced around, clearly seeing something the rest of them weren’t. “It shifts.”

“Oh! Like the mirrors.”

Willow looked around in confusion. “Mirrors?”

“I’ll show you.” Buffy rolled her shoulders to nudge at Spike. He growled at her.

“Sod off. Bit busy here.”

“Don’t you want to see Buffy Summers again?”

Spike’s head snapped up, vampiric face sliding away into astonished blue eyes. “What?”

Buffy smiled mysteriously and grabbed his hand. “This way.”

She led her rescue crew over toward the mirrored walkway outside the boarding area and settled in front of the glass-like wall, bracing against the onslaught of reflections. Meg Gallagher’s thoroughly mussed copper locks and squarish jaw appeared momentarily, then flitted through a series of Slayers she didn’t recognize before landing on Faith, then Kendra, then the long, honeyed hair and oval face of Buffy Summers. After twenty years, the sight of her previous self had become jarring and almost unwelcome—a life she’d long since made her peace with as over and done with. But it, too, flitted away.

Willow’s eyes were wide. “Whoa.”

Spike continued watching the progression of Slayers, jumping slightly when a feisty looking black woman came into view. A woman wearing Spike’s coat.

“She’s the last Slayer you killed, isn’t she?”

Spike tore his eyes away from the mirror. “Nikki? Yeah.” He took a step closer—in line with the mirror—and stopped dead as his own reflection swam into focus. After a moment, the familiar image of her vampire flitted away to an antiquely dressed man with messy brown hair and spectacles. It was followed by a humanoid, vaguely vampiric demon, all fangs and knobbed green head and red eyes. After a moment, it shifted back to Spike and the cycle started over again.

Spike’s jaw was nearly on the floor. “What the bleeding hell…”

Buffy eyed the images with giddy fascination. “Spike, is that William in there?”

The vampire nodded slowly, wide-eyed and looking slightly embarrassed. “Yeah.” His head cocked as the demon figure came into view again. “And my demon at its truest, I reckon.”

“Yes,” Illyria agreed. “My shell remembers this.” When everyone looked at her in surprise, she shrugged. “Angel looked as such in Pylea, where my shell was held captive.” She, too, stepped in front of the mirrors, her eyes riveted to them.

Illyria’s reflection swam into view, quickly flitting to Fred’s form, which was swept away by a massive, tentacled creature that had all of them except Illyria jerking back in surprise. Illyria beamed with proud delight. “My primordial form.”

“Whoa,” Willow said again.

Buffy motioned to the other redhead. “C’mon, Wils. See what the magic mirror holds for you.”

Willow eyed the wall doubtfully, but stepped forward. “After all that, I’m a little worried for mine.”

Willow’s current reflection faded to another version of her, all white haired and glowing like a star, before it shifted to an emo version of Wil, replete with black hair and darkly veined skin. Willow regarded her selves with a deep frown. “I guess it’s still there.”

Buffy watched the trio of images flick through again. “It?”

“Those are my magics,” Willow said quietly. “Dark, light.” She looked at Buffy apologetically. “When I brought you back… I was delving into some pretty dark stuff.”

“But you stopped.”

“I stopped,” Willow agreed, still looking dismayed. “But it’s still there.”

Buffy chewed her bottom lip, before admitting, “So’s mine, Wil.”

“Huh?”

“Watch what shows up after the First Slayer.”

They watched until Sineya flickered by again, followed by a deep column of dark shadow—vaguely humanoid. It was wiped away in the next moment by Meg’s form.

Buffy looked at her friends expectantly, but no one seemed surprised. “You guys knew this already.”

Spike sighed. “Nikki, the Slayer we were just chatting about? She had a son.”

Buffy blinked. Talk about out of left field. “Okay…”

“And this son, he tracked me down. Came to Sunnydale to get a piece of yours truly.”

“When we were battling the First Evil,” Willow added quietly. “Long story short, he had what used to be a sort of Slayer emergency kit. You know, in case the current badness was too bad for the current good guy guns.”

Buffy huffed. “Well, gee, that might’ve been nice to have when Glory was around.”

“Wouldn’t have been worth the price, luv,” Spike said seriously.

“Price?”

Willow nodded. “This kit… Faith activated it. It took her… well, back in time, I think. Anyway, the original Watchers—the Shadow Men…” Willow’s eyes hardened. “They were patriarchal, inhuman asshats.”

Buffy barked out a laugh. “Oh god. So they got along great with Faith, is what you’re saying.”

“Turns out they made the First Slayer by chaining a girl down and infusing her with a demon,” Spike said tightly. “Not sure ‘asshat’ quite bloody covers it.”

A chill spread through Buffy’s blood. “So Faith…”

Willow made a sound of disgust. “They tried to chain her up and ‘gift’ her with extra demon power. Faith told them where to shove it.”

Buffy laughed. “I’m sure she did.” She sobered. “I guess that’s… good to know.”

Spike reached over and squeezed her hand. “You’ll notice, Slayer, that’s there’s only one image of demon in that whole long array of yours.”

Buffy gave him a grateful half smile. “And a man for half of yours.”

Spike winced, giving the reflection of William a resigned look. “Seems that way.”

Illyria reached out and stroked the wall when her primordial form appeared again. “I could touch time,” she said matter-of-factly, looking almost distraught.

Willow scrunched up her nose. “You had twelve tentacles. I’m sure you could touch a lot of things.”

Buffy looked back to where Willow’s crimson portal still crackled. “Speaking of time, I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve been stuck in ‘flight delayed’ land for a really long freaking time. Can we go home now?” She looked at Spike for support, but he was watching her oddly. “What?”

His brow furrowed. “Buffy, you’re…. you’re glowing.”

“Oh. That. Something to do with here and being Ra’s daughter. Vessel of the sun, etc. It’s way worse outside.” Buffy gave Willow a grateful look. “By the way, the oxygen hood? A literal lifesaver.”

Spike was still looking at her like she was a ghost.

“Spike?”

His gaze flicked uncertainly to his shifting reflection. “You’re… effulgent,” he whispered.

She almost laughed (what kind of word was  _effulgent_?) but something dark and terrified in his eyes turned the giggle into a soft smile. “I don’t know what that means but… thank you.”

Spike’s smile was blinding. Then, ignoring Willow’s curious look, he cleared his throat and schooled his expression back to neutral. “Right then. Ready to get us back, Red? ‘Spect Rupes and Wes are about to blow their tops.”

Willow nodded, waving loosely toward her portal. “Hop in.”

Spike locked Buffy’s hand tightly in his own as he tugged them toward the crimson doorway—toward home and other Watchers and whatever in the world awaited Meg Gallagher in the land of the living. “Next apocalypse, Slayer,” he growled, “I’m chaining you to me.”

Buffy exhaled gustily, entwining her fingers more deeply with her vampire's. "If you think I'm going to argue, think again."


	26. Home for the Holidays

They tumbled out of Willow’s portal and into the Council HQ entryway to a chorus of very loud, very British exclamations and a swarm of buzzing questions that Buffy had no real energy to answer. She grimaced at Giles and Wesley, holding up a hand to stave off further onslaught.

“I’m alive and metaphorically kicking, and I promise to tell you tons about my fun little destination vacation in a hell dimension later. But first, someone please tell me how long I’ve been gone.”

Giles swallowed down what was obviously a mountain of questions and fixed her with a warm, relieved gaze. “It’s been a week and a half.”

“Today is the twenty-third. Christmas is the day after next,” Wesley added.

“Day after…” Buffy’s eyes widened in horror. “Oh my god. My parents.”

Spike’s hand squeezed hers more tightly. “Red texted them, luv. Hacked your mobile.”

Buffy turned to Willow incredulously. “And said what, exactly?”

Willow shrugged wearily. “That I—well, you—were staying late in Pittsburgh to be with a friend having emotional issues until her family showed up, um, today.”

Buffy exhaled loudly. “Yay, me.”

A weak laugh parted Willow’s lips. “Yeah.” She waved back toward where the crimson portal had stood—now dissipated. “I can portal you over there first thing tomorrow, but I sort of need sleep first.”

Wesley gave the redhead a deep frown. “Wil, I think you need more than a simple night’s rest. You’re dead on your feet.” His gaze darted between Spike and Illyria as he stepped toward the blue godwoman. “Not that either of you look much better.”

Illyria scoffed. “I have fended off legions at the last of my strength.” She motioned toward her battle-stained body. “This is of no significance.”

Wesley reached her, his eyes soft. “To you, perhaps. But to me… it matters greatly.”

Illyria stood still for a moment, then reached out a hand and brushed his cheek. “Very well. For you, I will give it a small consideration.”

“Thank you.”

Buffy turned away from the strangely intimate moment, taking the time to survey her own worn lover. Several gashes ran across Spike’s face—as if he’d barely avoided taking the brunt of something’s claws—and he was smeared with the dried remnants of what was assuredly a mix of blood and dirt and demon goo. She fingered a long scratch in his duster sleeve as Spike lifted a brow.

“Is this repairable?”

“Always has been before,” he said dryly. His tired gaze hardened, glittering. “Should take the cleaning bill out of your hide, Slayer.”

“But then I’ll have less hide for you to enjoy.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed and he made to retort when Wesley said loudly, “You all will take the jet back to the States.” When everyone turned to look at him, he added, “I will be staying here with Illyria, but the rest of you—Buffy, Spike, Willow—will board the Council jet in two hours. You can sleep there during the flight.” He gave Willow a hard look. “There is no need to run yourself further into the ground when we have alternatives.”

Willow looked like she wanted to argue, but ended up shrugging. “Fine with me. Although a plane isn’t exactly as restful as a bed.”

Buffy winced. The others had already spent how many ever days it was between here and hell time rescuing her, and now she was dragging them halfway across the world without a break. “Willow, I’m sure one of your witchy contacts from my neck of the woods could put wards up around my family. You don’t need to come.”

Willow straightened, mouth setting with familiar resolve. “I’m not letting some novice protect your family. I’ll be fine.”

Affection rose hot and heavy in her chest. “Thanks, Wil.”

“Anytime.”

Wesley nodded. “That’s settled, then.”

Giles pursed his lips. “I don’t suppose you could be convinced to include another Watcher in the mix?”

Buffy looked at him in surprise. “You want to come, too?”

Giles cleared his throat and didn’t quite meet her eyes. “It would be very foolish of me not to take the opportunity to meet your new family when it’s presented so blatantly.” He paused. “I may also be able to help break the ice when it comes to explaining your identity.”

Well, that cinched it. She gave Wesley an imperious look. “Giles is coming.”

Wesley raised a brow, but nodded toward Giles. “Rupert, a seat is yours.”

 

***

 

After an uneventful Uber trip back to the hipster hotel to pack and bathe (made only slightly awkward by the askance looks their driver kept giving their appearance), Buffy had barely removed the key card from their room door when Spike tugged her inside and slammed her against the inside of the door, his face vamped and angry.

“Don’t do that again, Slayer,” he snarled.

Her mind awash with trying to remember how to best fit her piles of stuff back in her suitcase, Buffy just stared blankly at him for a moment until it sunk in. “Won’t be able to,” she murmured. “You’ll have me chained to you, remember?”

His amber eyes narrowed dangerously. “Bloody well going to padlock you to my side, and don’t you doubt it.” Anguish made his expression crack. “Fucking hell, woman, I thought my heart had fallen out of my chest when I saw you jump.  _Again_.”

“The detonators were about to go off.”

Spike snorted. “Yeah, I realized that a second later when the bitch beast exploded all over me.” He took in a deep, shuddering breath as his face shifted back to human. “I can’t lose you again, Buffy. Not yet.”

She kissed his cheek and left her lips to linger against his skin. “I jumped to stay alive, Spike.”

Spike growled softly, unpinning her and pulling her into a tight embrace. “Doesn’t mean I have to bloody well like it,” he mumbled against her hair.

“I know,” she whispered. Her hands strayed down his ichor-ridden t-shirt and rested against his belt buckle. “You should get rid of these clothes.”

Spike smirked, tongue curling behind his teeth as he shrugged off his duster and flung it to the side, quickly followed by his t-shirt. He kissed her hungrily and tugged impatiently at her suit. “And get this sodding thing off.”

“Zipper’s in the back.”

He huffed. “Trust Red to make something I couldn’t just rip off you.”

“I’m pretty sure that is not what she had in mind when she created this.” Buffy grinned impishly as Spike turned her around and pulled down the zipper. “Probably a good quality assurance test, though.”

“Probably,” he agreed huskily, kissing her now bare shoulder and biting down with blunt teeth. He grasped her hip in a hard grip as she stepped out of the legs of the suit and her underwear, and heard him unbuckle his belt with his free hand. “Gotta have you right now,” he growled.

“Right now,” she echoed, bracing against the door and hoping it would hold against the forthcoming assault.

Spike’s hand curved up under her arm and around to her lips. “Suck my fingers, pet.”

She drew his fingers into his mouth and laved them with her tongue, to Spike’s low groan as he pulled them away and slid them down to caress her clit.

Buffy quivered and arched against his touch, biting her lip as his cock rubbed against her ass cheeks before slipping between her thighs and entering her with one swift motion.

“Christ, I needed this,” Spike groaned, thrusting into her as his mouth pressed soft kisses against her neck. “Needed you.”

She turned her head to capture his lips with hers, nodding desperately. “I love you,” she said thickly, gasping as his thumb pressed hard against her clit.

“I love you, too, Buffy,” Spike growled. “Love you so bloody much. Now hold onto that doorframe better so I can fuck the daylights out of you.”

 

***

 

The plane ride back to the U.S. was nearly as uneventful as the cab ride to the hotel, if only because Buffy slept through most of it. Spike did nudge her awake toward the end, looking resigned as he pulled out a stylus for his Council-issued tablet.

“Hmm?” she mumbled, straightening out the crick in her neck. “What’s that for?”

Spike sighed. “Watcherly duties. Gotta get your report about our run-in with the bitch beast.”

Buffy huffed a sleepy laugh that turned into a yawn. “Is that Ammit’s official descriptor now? It sounds like what you always called Glory.”

“That slag was the hell bitch. Whole different vibe.”

“Uh huh.” Buffy sighed and sat up farther in her seat, her mouth quirking as Giles, opposite them, slowly set down the book he’d been reading.

“Do you mind if I listen in?”

Spike rolled his eyes. “It’s a small space here, Rupert—couldn’t exactly stop you.”

Giles’s eyes lit up as he pulled out a notebook. “Excellent.”

Buffy shook her head in resignation as she looked between the two men. “I have two Watchers.”

 

***

 

It was snowing in Connecticut, to Willow’s apparent delight.

“We don’t get much snow in London,” she said ruefully, face tilted up blissfully toward the sky as they stood on the Gallagher home’s front porch. “Way more than Sunnydale, of course, but still not much.”

Giles grimaced. “Yes, it’s very… unusual.”

Spike barked a laugh. “Oh buck up, Rupes. Tis the season and all that rot.”

Giles lifted a brow. “Please pardon me if I don’t take holiday cheer advice from a demon.”

Buffy ignored the snarking and took a deep breath before knocking on her front door, much as she’d done a month ago for Thanksgiving. It was almost laughable how much life had changed between now and then.

Paul opened the door this time, smiling with pure dad warmth and love. “Buffy! Welcome home, honey.”

Aching relief and love tightened her throat. “Hi, dad.”

Paul's smile held as he caught sight of the vampire behind her. “Spike,” he said jovially, “it’s great to have you here again. Merry Christmas!” Confusion furrowed his brow as his gaze landed on Giles and Willow. “I’m afraid I don’t…”

Buffy bit her lip nervously. “Dad, they’re friends. Can we come in?”

 

***

 

The living room was uncomfortably silent. Lara and Paul were on the loveseat; Giles had situated himself in the armchair; and Willow, Buffy, and Spike sat on the large couch. Lara and Paul’s eyes were riveted on Giles and Willow in disbelief—her second Watcher and friend had just gotten done explaining about Buffy’s Calling. By general agreement, Buffy’s previous life had been left off the books for now. Her parents were getting a big enough shock as it was—she couldn’t stand the idea of them thinking their daughter was any less theirs than she most assuredly was on top of everything.

Lara broke the silence with a small, trembling laugh. “I’d think I was on a hidden camera show if you all didn’t look so serious. Still, I… I don’t know how to believe this.”

Spike cleared his throat and looked to Buffy for permission. “I’m sure Buffy can show you a nice feat of strength for the Slayer end of things, but I can prove the demon part.”

Buffy caught her parents’ gazes and held them. “Mom, dad: Spike is going to show you something that may be frightening, okay? But he’s not going to hurt you.”

Paul sat up straighter on the couch, eyes narrowing. “Hurt us?”

“Just watch Spike.”

Once the Gallaghers were watching, Spike very slowly shifted to game face, to Lara’s sharp intake of breath.

“Oh my god. What are you?”

Spike’s golden eyes held her mom’s stoically. “I’m a vampire, mum.”

Paul’s gaze darted between Spike and Buffy, looking cautiously baffled. “So Buffy’s supposed to, ah, kill vampires. But Spike is…?”

“Spike’s a good vampire.”

Spike snorted. “Good’s a stretch.”

Buffy threw him a hard look. “Don’t start. Unless you want me to start naming all of your heroic deeds? How many apocalypse aversions are you up to now?”

Spike pursed his lips and didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought.”

Giles chuckled. “Spike is, ah, reformed.” His expression turned grave. “Please do not believe most other vampires would sit here in such a… civilized manner.”

Paul nodded tightly and Buffy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Dad, did you know about vampires before?”

Paul’s mouth drew a crooked line. “I…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I went to a lot of concerts back in the day. Could have sworn I saw…” His eyes found Spike’s face. “I saw some people who looked like you now and then.”

Spike grinned around his fangs before dropping his guise back to human. “Not surprised, mate. Punk’s popular with the undead crowd.”

Lara’s expression was narrow with wary realization. “You didn’t really get your nickname from a jazz musician, did you?”

Spike’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “No, mum.”

“Do I want to know where it really came from?”

“Doubt it.”

Lara nodded, looking dazed. “Right. So my daughter has been ‘chosen’ to fight evil creatures. And she’s dating a… vampire. Am I missing anything?”

A frown drew between Paul’s brows as he regarded Buffy. “When do you get to stop?”

 _Oh, dad, I wish I knew…_  Buffy sighed and Spike squeezed her knee. “When I die.”  _At least for a few years. Probably._

“When you…” Lara’s face turned deathly pale.

“If we have anything to say in the matter,” Giles cut in steadily, with an edge of hard determination, “and we have plenty to say, your daughter will live a very long life for a Slayer.”

Paul stared between them. “And just how long is that, exactly?”

“Years,” Buffy said quietly.

“Decades,” Spike growled, shooting her a deadly look.

Lara reached for Paul’s hand and her dad took it in an iron grip. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

Lara’s chin trembled. “How can this be okay? This is… this is  _not okay_ , Paul.”

Paul reached over and kissed her forehead. “I know.” He looked back at Buffy, his fear and love shining in his eyes. “How are you holding up, kiddo?”

Buffy smiled weakly through a sudden surge of tears. “I’m okay, dad. Really. And I love you both so much. You know that, right?”

“Of course we do.”

Buffy nodded and brushed away the tears that had escaped down her cheeks. “Okay. Good.” She took a calming breath. “And I… I had to quit college. I’m going to be travelling the world taking care of Big Bads and I couldn’t… it’s just not possible to be a normal college student right now.”

Paul sighed. “I hate to say it, but after everything, that announcement really doesn’t hit the top of the list in shocks for the day.”

“I’m sorry, dad.”

Paul straightened in the loveseat. “You don’t need to be sorry for anything, honey,” he said sharply. He glanced back at Giles. “This was… random, right?”

“Destined by higher powers,” Giles murmured, ignoring Willow’s wince.

“… Right.” Paul shook his head slightly. “Either way, Buffy, it’s just the way the chips fell. And we’ll always be here for you. Anything we can do, we’ll do it.”

Lara seemed to regain her voice, her eyes flashing as she fixed a hard stare on Giles. “Anything. Tell us what we can do to help our daughter.”

Willow raised her hand. “What you can do, Mrs. Gallagher, is stay safe. I’m here to put some wards on your house—some protections—to keep bad things from getting in.”

“Just be damn sure someone has a heartbeat before you invite them in the house,” Spike added. He pulled out a sheet of paper from his duster and laid it on the coffee table. “I wrote you a list of things to look out for.”

Lara glanced toward the paper and then back to Spike, her mouth twisting wryly. “Like sun sensitivity?”

A brief smile flicked across his lips. “Exactly like that, mum.”

"There is more to discuss," Giles murmured. "A few more important pieces we must tell you about Buffy and her future. But at a later date."

Lara nodded firmly and stood, smacking her hands lightly on her hips. “Yes, I agree, Mr. Giles. Whatever else there is can wait. It’s Christmas eve and I have some mulled wine on the stove. Can I get anyone a cup?”


	27. Christmas in Connecticut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points if you're familiar with the source of the chapter title! (Much like Whose Line, the points don't matter here, but you get virtual confetti)

“It’s not much,” Lara said she surveyed the contents of the freezer on Christmas morning, hands on her hips, “but we have plenty of wine, and a honeyed ham, and a couple bags of carrots.” She looked back at Buffy, who was yawning as she stirred sugar into her coffee.

Nine a.m. had come way too fast after a near apocalypse and transatlantic travel. The others appeared to be in the same boat, at least; Willow was still asleep in the spare room and Giles had actually braved American coffee. Even dad had been dragging this morning, blearily mumbling a vague excuse to Aunt Kim and Uncle James about why they wouldn’t be joining the family for the traditional festivities at their house in Hartford. Spike was the only one who seemed back to normal—the dead man cheerily wishing everyone a ‘happy Christmas’ while all those among the living felt like death. Damn vampire.

“Buffy? Do you think that’ll be enough?”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, mom.”

Lara nodded, hesitating mid-motion. “And Spike? He eats food…”

“He eats food because he likes it, but he doesn’t need it.”

The crow's feet around Lara’s eyes deepened as her eyes narrowed. “You’re about to tell me that real life vampires really do drink blood, aren’t you?”

“Yep. Don’t worry about that, though. He’s, um, taken care of.” Thankfully, Spike had bitten her in a discreet spot this morning, and Buffy’s newest bite mark was just below her clavicle, well hidden by her heavy knit sweater.

“I see.” Lara stood stiffly for a moment—clearly debating whether or not to pursue that line of questioning—then sighed and shut the freezer. Buffy braced for a very uncomfortable discussion. “You knew what he was before you got chosen for this Lady van Helsing role, didn’t you?”

Buffy nodded carefully. “I did.” When Lara just stood waiting for more, she added, “I’ve known about the supernatural for a long time.”

“Yes, I... you said yesterday that someone identified your potential when you were younger.” Confusion and hurt colored her mom's voice. “Why didn’t you tell us, Buffy?”

Buffy winced down at her coffee. God, she couldn’t keep from hurting her mom in either lifetime. “I... I was afraid.”

“Afraid?” Lara made a small sound of distress and moved around the kitchen island, wrapping Buffy in a warm grip; Buffy’s coffee cup created an awkward lump between them, but they both ignored it. “Honey… I can’t promise that it would’ve been easy or that we wouldn't have wanted a bit of proof—maybe including a chat or twenty with someone from this Council—but we would’ve been there for you. And we’re here for you now. You don’t need to be afraid of telling me or your dad things. We love you.”

Tears threatened the edges of Buffy’s eyes. Would things have been different the first time if Joyce and Hank had been told earlier, when Merrick had still been alive and able to soften the blow? Maybe. Or maybe they would’ve taken out a restraining order against her Watcher and then still had her committed. In the end, it didn’t really matter. This time, she wasn’t alone. Her free hand clutched Lara’s sweater. “I love you both so much, mom.” She took a shuddering breath to shake away the memories. “And not telling you didn’t have anything to do with you or dad, I promise. It’s one of those things we have to talk about still.”

“I thought that was about your future.”

“Future and past is kind of one big mixy thing for me.”

Lara looked at her helplessly as she took a step back to grab her own coffee from the counter. “I don’t understand.”

“I know.”

Lara pursed her lips, brown eyes flashing. “I’d say this world savior organization should find a way for you to not be their superhero, but that…” She faltered, looking pale. “That would just mean another girl would have to do it, wouldn’t it?”

“It would.” Buffy’s eyes closed briefly as a wash of grief swept through her, the long line of Chosen girls from the mirrored airport in Duat crystal clear in her mind. “There’s always a girl.”  _And twice now it’s been me._

A familiar warning prickled the back of her neck as Spike neared the kitchen. He regarded Lara solemnly as he slid into view, the look in his eyes making it clear he’d heard at least the tail end of the conversation. “Buffy’s damn good at what she does, for what it’s worth.” There was a pointed pause as he glared at her, with the unsaid  _When she’s not jumping into hell portals_  resting between them. “Not to mention she has me at her back—bloody well chained to her, if need be—and I’ll be there until I dust.”

Lara’s frown returned as she surveyed Spike. “How does that work exactly, with you as her mentor-protector  _and_  boyfriend? Aren’t there…”

Spike lifted a brow. “Rules and conventions against that kind of thing?”

“Well, yes.”

Buffy took a sip of coffee. “Spike sort of waves to rules as he passes them by, and keeps driving.”

“Pot, kettle, luv.”

Buffy grinned. “And I’m a much better driver now.”

Lara frowned bemusedly between them. “Regardless…”

Spike sighed. “If you’re asking what I hazard you are, I’ll tell you the same bloody thing I told the Council: there’s not a single way our relationship could go sideways that would mean me leaving your daughter unprotected.” When Lara looked dubious, he smiled crookedly at her. “I’ve been a vampire for over a century, mum, and I’ve loved a woman who was nuttier than fruitcake and one who’d for years sooner break my back than kiss me—the former which she actually did, mind you, though long before the kissing part was a serious consideration.”

Buffy smiled wryly into her coffee cup. Sixteen-year-old Buffy Summers had been a wreck over Spike’s arrival in Sunnydale—almost too innocent to understand all the nuance to his threats, and too infatuated with Angel to want to consider the significance behind them when she did—but that hadn’t stopped her body from responding to him. Even then, there was no one she enjoyed fighting more, though she'd have died before admitting it as the foreplay that it was.

“Thing is,” Spike continued evenly, his blue eyes narrowed and unblinking on Lara, “I don’t leave the women I love. I’m only not with my first lady because I was falling in love with the second without knowing it, and she kicked me to the curb. And that was after a century.”

Lara eyed him thoughtfully. “And the second?”

Spike’s eyes flickered briefly to Buffy, pain and love etched across his face. “She died.”

“Oh, Spike… Honey, I’m so sorry.”

Spike blinked at the endearment so often used for her child, a puff of soft amusement parting his lips. “You’re a kind woman to say so, but I’m a tough old vamp, luv.” He nodded toward Buffy, his expression intent and meaningful. “And your daughter’s here now with yours truly, so I don’t have a complaint in the world.”

Lara smiled at that, eyeing them both as Spike took a few steps to the left, his arm slipping around Buffy’s waist. “In all the excitement of Thanksgiving, I never did ask how you two met.” She lifted a brow. “But maybe that’s for the best, because I have the funny feeling I wouldn’t have gotten the real story then.”

And she wouldn’t get the real story now, with how things stood. Buffy slumped against Spike’s side. So much for hoping for one last Christmas with a shred of normalcy. “We should get everyone into the living room to explain the rest. It’s just too complicated now.”

Spike nodded and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead as he stepped away. “I’ll round up the troops, Slayer.”

Lara stared after Spike in bemusement as he disappeared down the hallway. “My daughter has a vampire at her beck and call,” she murmured almost absently before turning back to Buffy, a twinkle her eyes. “Must be the Gallagher genes.”

Buffy smiled crookedly into her coffee cup.  _Just wait until you hear that this is the second vampire who’s been there, mom._

 

***

 

They all sat clustered in the living room near the Christmas tree—a fake stand-in that’d seen better years. After a pigeon flew out of their live spruce ten years ago—leaving mom and dad to chase the poor bird around the house with gloves and brooms for an hour until it finally flew out the front door—Lara had sworn the Gallaghers to faux-nature for all future Christmases.

Buffy gently touched the plastic spruce needles before looking over at her parents. “First things first: I am your daughter, okay? I have been your daughter for nineteen years and I will always,  _always_  be your daughter. But the thing is… before I was your daughter, I was someone else’s daughter.”

Paul and Lara traded bewildered looks, and Paul’s brow furrowed. “I think your mom and I are a bit lost, sweetheart. I watched you come into this world. I was right there in the delivery room.”

“And I toted you around for eight months before that,” Lara added wryly.

“Yeah, you did,” Spike agreed softly, his arms resting on his thighs as he leaned forward in the armchair. “And the two of you created Buffy’s body with a bit of hanky-panky before that.”

Buffy smacked his shoulder. “I didn’t need that imagery, you jerk.”

Spike grinned unrepentantly at her before adding, “Buffy’s body is one hundred percent of your making. But her spirit? That’s been around a touch longer.” He nodded toward Giles, who was cradling a cup of tea on the loveseat next to Willow. “Rupert here can fill you in on that part.”

Giles set down his tea on the coffee table with a firm nod. “Is either of you familiar with the term ‘transmigration’?”

 

***

 

“That’s her… you?” Lara looked up from Willow’s iPad screen, her eyes tentatively flicking between her daughter and the picture of Buffy Summers.

“That was me.” Buffy swallowed thickly, her hand reaching toward the photo of the Summers trio—her old body beaming next to an impossibly young Dawn and a smiling Joyce. “Wil, where did you get this?”

Willow’s eyes were soft. “Dawn. She took your family photo albums when she went to Illinois, and asked me to scan them a couple years later when we’d, um, made up. I’d kind of forgotten about them until now. Would you like me to send them to you?”

Buffy stared at her first family. A pang went through her, increased tenfold when Spike laid a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Yes,” she whispered finally. “Please.”

Paul took Lara’s hand. “Are they alive, Buffy? Do they know?”

Buffy shook her head. “No, dad. I mean, mom—my first mom—died before I did. My dad was out of the picture long before that. Dawn—my sister—is still alive, but she doesn’t know I’m here. She’s living in Alaska with her family. Spike and I were planning to visit her and break the news after the new year. After we told you.”

Lara’s eyes turned teary and her mouth curved into a shaky smile. “You wanted to tell us first?”

“Of course, mom. Of course I did.”

 

 

***

 

Paul’s fists were clenched as he stared at Willow, a mix of overwhelmed emotions marring his face. “You’re the reason Buffy is here? That she’s ours? That’s she’s this– this Vampire Slayer… again?”

Willow swallowed, hands tightening on her lap as she faced Paul unflinchingly, like a woman staring into a firing squad. “I am,” she said quietly. “I was young. And very, very stupid.”

Lara was cradling Buffy in her arms near the Christmas tree, mother and daughter both nearly worn out by tears. A heavy, ominous weight was gone from Buffy’s chest, and she clutched her mom with careful strength while the elder woman murmured a soothing litany of, “I don’t care how you came here, or long you’ve been in this world, Buffy. You are ours. You’re ours. You’re ours.”

Paul was on the verge of tears himself and he hastily swiped at his face. “I have no idea if I want to kill you or kiss you, Miss Rosenberg.”

Giles made a small amused noise in his throat as he met Spike’s eyes. “Well, if I was still wondering how the Powers ended up placing Buffy here in this home, then I think my question would now be answered.”

Spike snorted. “No bloody kidding.” He met Paul’s confused gaze with a grin. “Buffy's the walking advertisement for a ‘kiss or kill’ kind of woman.”

Buffy laughed weakly against her mom’s shoulder. “Like father, like daughter.”

 

***

 

“I think someone ran me over with a truck,” Buffy murmured wearily as she and Spike walked slowly through downtown Danbury. The streets were quiet in the dark and snowy holiday, a visceral relief after all the tension of the day.

Spike chuckled. “I’m not seeing the requisite tire tracks, pet.”

“Believe me, they’re there.”

Family and friends were a few steps behind, with Lara and Willow cooing at the seasonal window displays. It was entirely weird to view the two similarly aged redheads together—they could have been mistaken for sisters. Hell, Willow already had the same shampoo. Giles was keeping Paul entertained with stories from his youth (hopefully not the demon summoning kind), leaving Spike and Buffy to plow ahead in the nighttime snow.

All in all, her family had taken everything almost frightening well—she couldn’t help but wonder when the floor was going to drop away. When her parents would change their minds about coping with everything. Although, as Lara had dryly pointed out earlier, “Buffy, honey, we don’t exactly have much choice. Unless we wanted you out of our lives,  _and we very much do not_ , then this… well, this is just how things are now.”

Buffy sighed, tilting her face up toward the dark sky. Snowflakes pirouetted down like joyful dervishes, kissing her skin with tiny pinpricks of cold. Snow at Christmas was commonplace in Connecticut, but as Buffy Summers it had only happened once. She’d been strolling down the street with a vampire then, too. “Do you think the Powers felt sorry for me this time around?”

Spike lifted a brow. “You referring to what Rupert said about why you were born here?”

“Yeah. Why I’m a Gallagher.”

“Dunno, Slayer. Could’ve just been dumb luck.” He growled lowly. “It’s not like the bastards ever cut you a break before.”

Buffy grimaced. “No. They didn’t.”

Spike squeezed her mittened hand from where it was pressed against his bare fingers inside his duster pocket. “I’d rather give you the credit.”

“What, for my spirit randomly picking a stable family to get born into?”

“For carrying on through everything.”

She shrugged, Lara’s words echoing in her ears. “It’s not like I’ve had much of a choice. I didn’t take my shot at oblivion with Ammit, so…”

Spike halted them on the sidewalk, his entire body stiffening. “You thought of taking it?”

She squeezed his hand through her mittens. “Only when I thought it was the only option left. Only until I saw you and Willow running toward me.”

Spike’s jaw clenched and his gaze darted around the darkened street as he clearly searched for some kind of distraction from the violence trembling in his limbs.

Buffy glanced around with him. Pretty much everything was closed at 7 p.m. on Christmas evening, except… yes. Thank god. A young Chinese couple owned one of the coffee shops on this street, and they usually didn’t care about Christian holidays. The lights in the shop were still on.

Buffy tugged on his hand. “C’mon. The coffee shop ahead makes a mean hot chocolate.”

Spike’s expression turned immediately surprised, his muscles loosening as he let her pull them forward. “You knew about that?”

“When there kept being three hot chocolate mugs by the sink after you were chipped, things got suspicious.” Buffy’s lips curved into a small smile. “Plus, you know, Dawn’s mouth never stayed shut for long.”

Spike snorted. “That part hasn’t changed much over the years.”

Buffy laughed and signaled to her parents that they were heading for the coffee shop. So intent on getting through the door of the little boutique, she blindly stumbled into someone standing near the doorway.

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

The woman caught her balance on the edge of a table and offered a bright, if practiced-looking smile, her voice shockingly familiar and no-nonsense. “You are forgiven. However, I will take payment for your clumsiness in the form of a hot beverage.” The woman’s smile dropped slightly as Buffy just gaped at her, and she continued with a slightly less certain, “Or a cold beverage, although I’d…” The woman’s voice trailed off as she caught sight of the vampire entering the shop, her demeanor shifting to rigid shock. “ _Spike_?”

Spike froze and stared at the woman. “Bloody...  _Anya_?”


	28. Hail, Hail, the Gang’s (Almost) All Here

There was no doubt about it now. Anya was standing in front of them in a coffee shop in Danbury, Connecticut. And she didn’t look a day older than she’d looked twenty years ago; only her hair was different—bobbed now, with soft bangs, though still (or, more likely, again) a pale shade of blonde. God, all they needed now was for Xander and Dawn to walk through the door and the Sunnydale set would be complete.

Anya threw up her hands in exasperation and shook her head at Spike. “I should have known. No wonder no one’s had any luck. Not with you hanging around.” Anya pursed her lips. “And now I’ve wasted one of the best vengeance days of the year in this silly little town.”

Buffy and Spike traded bemused looks.

Within a breath, Anya's annoyance had shifted to calculated speculation. She surveyed Buffy narrowly, gesturing toward her stained shirt. “Though you  _did_  spill my drink on me, and since I bothered to come all the way out here…” She flashed Buffy a dazzling smile. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in making one tiny wish?”

That took a second to sink in, then shock rolled through Buffy like a tidal wave. “You’re here for  _me_?”

Anya’s brow furrowed. “Well, of course.” She glanced at Spike curiously. “I didn’t expect to find you with a human after everything, but you’ve always been an odd vampire. Or are you just protecting this one?” Anya’s gaze snapped back to Buffy. “You don’t look familiar. But the red hair is… Oh! You must be a little Willow brat.” Anya made a sound of pleased satisfaction. “You know, I told her often that she was missing out on some excellent penis action, so I imagine you have me partially to thank for your existence.”

“For my…” Buffy’s voice failed her, and she was still struggling to get it back when her family, Willow, and Giles tumbled in the door.

Anya regarded the new arrivals in astonishment. “Willow? And Giles? Oh.  _Oh_. So you’re the one who turned Willow back to men! I always thought there could be something between you two. Xander never believed me, but he was a very unobservant man. Like most men.”

Giles was blinking very hard at the vengeance demon. “ _Anya?_  Good lord… what in heavens are you doing here?” His expression turned slightly embarrassed. “And what were you implying about myself and Willow?”

Spike snorted a laugh. “Anyanka here seems under the impression that you made Red switch teams again.” He motioned toward Buffy, his lips twitching. “And that Buffy’s your daughter.”

Anya’s expression sobered, flicking between regretful and impressed as she stared down Willow. “You named your daughter ‘Buffy’? That’s rather twisted, even by vengeance standards. Does she know about what you did to her namesake? Is that why she has an ‘avenge me’ sign around her neck the size of Arashmaharr?”

Willow gaped at the demon. “Anya,” she said slowly, “Buffy isn’t my daughter.”

“She’s ours,” Paul said firmly, his hands gently resting atop Lara’s shoulders.

“And I’m not Buffy’s namesake,” Buffy added equally firmly. “I  _am_  Buffy. Mostly. Sort of. It’s a long story.” She gave the other woman a small, wry wave. “Anyway, hi, Anya. Long time no see.”

Anya stared hard at her. “You’re Buffy Summers?”

"I was. I'm Buffy Gallagher now."

“And she’s the Slayer,” Spike added in a low growl. He swallowed. “Again.”

Anya’s eyes lit up. “Oh, this is just too good.” She motioned toward the small coffee shop seating area. Thankfully, there was only one employee at the counter behind them, and she was clearly more interested in picking at her nails than listening to their weird reunion. “Sit. I want all the details.”

Lara gave Anya a wary look before stepping next to Buffy. “Honey, who is this woman?”

Oh boy. Wasn’t this going to be fun to explain. “Her name is Anya. I knew her before. In my old body.”

“But she looks only about your age.”

Anya beamed at Lara. “Why, thank you. That is very validating. I was afraid at least a couple hundred years were starting to show.”

Paul made a small choked noise. “You’re a couple hundred years old?” He looked uncertainly over at Buffy. “Is she a vampire, too?”

Anya waved dismissively as she started pulling several tables together. “Oh no, I’m a vengeance demon. And I’m well over a thousand.” She motioned to all of them. “Now sit.” She raised a brow at Buffy. “And you still owe me a new drink, missy. Or a wish.”

 

***

 

“God, Willow, that resurrection spell was a disaster,” Anya announced when they’d explained the situation. “I mean, I’ve seen some doozies, but I think this this might be the worst. I told you we should have called in an expert.”

Willow winced, looking both annoyed and guilty. “Yes, well, it’s a little late for that now.”

“But not too late to exact vengeance for it,” Anya added happily.

Buffy shook her head at the vengeance demon. “I thought you only dealt with scorned women.”

Anya shrugged. “I diversified when I went back.” She unexpectedly reached out and clasped Buffy’s hand in hers, looking earnest and apologetic. “I am sorry about my part in your untimely death. And I hope you know that I decided to expand into friend betrayal vengeance because of it. It was the least I could do.”

Buffy found herself again nearly at a loss for words. “That’s… sweet, Anya. Kind of.”

Giles sighed heavily in his seat as he cleaned his glasses. “And I assume that explains why you’re here.”

Spike watched the vengeance demon warily. “But why weren’t you here sooner then? Buffy’s been around again for twenty years.”

Something tightened around Anya’s eyes. “I’ve been in another dimension. This one… Humans weren’t agreeing with me. But I decided to come visit a friend recently, and I about fell over when I got here.” Anya sighed, looking wistfully at Buffy. “With the kind of vengeance need floating around you, I’d be next in line to take over in Arashmaharr if I granted you a wish. Which is, of course, why so many of my colleagues have been trying to get to you.”

Buffy wrinkled her nose. “Anya, I don’t remember seeing any vengeance demons before.”

“Of course you don't. If you did, they were terrible at their job. They would’ve been a caring adult or a nice stranger or your neighbor down the street.”

Well, that was a terrifying realization.

“They all failed, obviously,” Anya added reasonably, “but no one knew they were dealing with a transmigrated Slayer.”

“And they won’t still,” Spike said flatly.

“Quite right,” Giles added sharply. “The supernatural world cannot learn of Buffy’s continued existence.”

Anya huffed. “Why should I keep it a secret? I don’t play for your team anymore.”

Spike’s eyes flashed gold. “Because you want to continue existing.”

Willow nodded as red electricity flashed between her fingers. “What Spike said.”

Lara sat up straighter in her chair and glared Anya. “I don’t have any superpowers, but I will find some way to make your life very miserable if you put my daughter in further danger.”

Spike grinned at her. “A woman after my own heart.”

Buffy held the once-Scooby’s gaze. “Anya. Please.”

Anya leaned back in her chair with a defeated sigh. “Fine. I won’t tell Hoffy about this juicy piece of information.”

“Thank you.”

Anya drained the remainder of her replacement cappuccino and set the cup down with a firm hand. “Well. This has all been very unexpected and disconcerting.”

Buffy barely held in a laugh. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the general consensus, I think.”

The vengeance demon glanced around at the assembled crew rather uncertainly. “I guess I should be on my way.”

The hint of vulnerability in her voice made Buffy’s hand shoot out to touch her wrist. “Anya, I’m sorry I didn’t understand things before. About you adjusting to being human and a different age and everything.” Buffy smiled crookedly. “I’ve wanted to tell you that for years, but I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance.”

Anya drew back slightly, looking flustered. “Oh.”

Willow raised her hand, looking abashed. “And I… things were really screwy in Sunnydale. You and Xander were going through a lot and I wasn’t there. I’m sorry about that.”

Anya stared at the redhead in surprise. “I didn’t think it would make a difference. You were friends with Xander, not me.”

Willow’s guilty expression deepened. “I should have done better.”

“Yes, well, we all should have done better,” Giles said gruffly. “But that time is long past.”

“What is not quite past is Christmas,” Lara said suddenly, standing and gesturing toward the table. “Let’s all go back to the house and open a bottle or three of wine.” She pointed at Anya. “And that includes you.”

Anya’s surprise turned to outright shock. “Me?”

Spike chuckled lowly and nudged Buffy’s shoulder. “Something tells me your folks are adopting the Scoobies.”

Buffy blinked in bemusement as Paul stood and joined his wife, motioning everyone to their feet. “It sure looks that way.”

Paul paused and regarded their group with deep scrutiny. “I don’t suppose any of you would be up for a game of euchre?”

 

***

  
“Rupert Giles, you are still a very handsome man, even though you are quite old now.”

Giles nearly spat out his wine as he stared at Anya. “Good lord,” he muttered, his face flushing adorably red.

Buffy giggled into her own wine glass, leaning heavily on Spike’s shoulder as he watched the current hand of euchre with predatory concentration, a best of three game with him and Paul versus Giles and Willow. The rest of them were cluttered around the players at the table, drinking and watching.

“Anya, I’ve missed your bluntness.”

Willow threw down her card with a wry grimace. “Not me.  _Very_ familiar with it still, with Illyria around. They could be sisters.”

“The old gods were usually so full of themselves,” Anya said in a nostalgic tone, “but they did get to the point in a timely manner. I could really do without flowery monologues having come back into style. Some of the new upstarts make me want to pull my hair out.”

Giles peered at her over his glasses. “Upstarts? There are upstarts?”

“Always. If there’s not an ascension happening in one dimension, there are twenty revolutions happening somewhere else.”

Paul looked up from surveying his hand, his brow furrowed. “Just how many dimensions are there?”

“Oh, I’ve lost track, honestly. Different powers like to meddle, so they go in and out of existence at the drop of a hat.”

“Thousands, at least,” Willow supplied. “Maybe millions.”

Lara shook her head in slow disbelief. “You all talk about this like it’s so commonplace.”

Spike made a victorious noise in his throat as he laid down the jack of spades. “That’s a euchre.”

Willow threw her remaining cards back in the middle as the others did the same, and gave Lara a sympathetic look while Giles shuffled the cards. “Trust me, after a couple years, it won’t seem weird anymore.”

Buffy nodded ruefully. “And then it’ll be the new weird things that you have to watch out for, mom.”

 

***

 

It was long past midnight. Anya had tipsily teleported away at the end of the festivities, but not before giving Buffy an unexpected hug and saying that she was welcome to summon her anytime.

“Anya offered me a wish again before she left,” Buffy said sleepily as she nuzzled Spike’s neck. Her body was warm and loose from slightly too much wine, and she was practically draped over her vampire as they snuggled in her childhood room. He didn’t seem to mind, his chest rumbling in a low purr and his eyes closed in contentment.

“She’s always been a bit like a dog with a bloody bone.”

Buffy lifted herself onto an elbow and traced one of Spike’s pale pectorals, smiling as he shivered at her touch. His cock hardened against her stomach. “I sort of thought about taking her up on it.”

Spike’s eyes snapped open and he looked up at her incredulously. “You  _what_?”

“I wouldn’t,” she added defensively, “but…”

Spike’s gaze softened. “But you think it could fix the loop Red got you stuck in.”

“Oh, I’m sure it could. But it would probably do a whole lot of other nasty things too. Right before Anya became human, she apparently granted a wish to Cordelia.”

“Didn’t go well?”

“Uh, to say the least.” Buffy’s lips quirked with memory. “She threw Cordy into a different dimension. Willow was actually a vampire there. A really slutty, gay vampire.”

Spike’s brows rose, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Sounds like a right fine time.”

Buffy gave him a hard look. “Not fine. Especially when vamp Willow got sucked into our Sunnydale.”

Spike’s brows rose higher. “When the bleeding hell did all this happen?”

“Senior year of high school. The year you were mostly gone.”

Spike grunted. “Don’t really remember much of that year, to be honest.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised, considering the haze of alcohol around you when you came back that once.”

Spike grimaced. “Not my finest hour, I’ll admit.” He twined fingers through her copper curls with a soft smile. “But I couldn’t stay away from you, even then.”

Buffy settled back against his chest with a sigh. “Sometimes it feels like I’m remembering things about Sunnydale from underwater. It’s all sort of dream-like.”

“Time has a way of doing that, luv.”

“New lifetime and body probably doesn’t help, either.”

She felt Spike smile against her hair. “Prolly not.” His hand slid down across her hip, lifting her leg up to his waist. “And what a luscious body it is,” he murmured huskily as his fingers wandered over to play with her clit.

Pleasure jolted up her spine and Buffy whimpered. She reached down for his cock and angled it toward her, shifting her hips so that he slid into her, cool and hard and pulsing. “Merry Christmas, Spike,” she murmured, lifting herself up fully so that she straddled him. His full length thrust up into her and they both moaned.

“Best gift a man could ask for,” Spike groaned, his fingers resting on her hips.

Buffy grinned as she rode him slowly. “Do you remember when your birthday is?”

Spike’s eyes lifted from where he was watching her boobs bounce. “Mmm? My birthday? It’s sometime in April. Don’t remember the day anymore.”

“You should pick a day to celebrate it then.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Why? I haven’t celebrated my birthday since I was turned, Slayer.”

“Because,” Buffy said with a small twist of her hips that made Spike groan again, “then you can get a present.”

A slow grin spread across her vampire’s face. “The ninth,” he said decisively, thrusting up into her with a growl.

Buffy gasped as Spike’s hand dipped down and caressed her clit. She clenched around him, her head thrown back in pleasure as she quickened her pace. “The ninth it is.”


	29. The Remaining Summers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for another long-awaited reunion!  
> amidtheflowers – the reference is for you. You’ll know the one.

The end of the year passed in a blur, all the members of Buffy's old and new life trying to figure out their adjusted places in the world. Giles, for his part, went back to England after Christmas day ‘to get his affairs in order.’

Buffy had eyed him warily after that announcement. “Giles, that sounds like you’re dying.”

“Dying? Oh good heavens, no,” he murmured. “But my life in Britain… I think that shall be well and truly put to rest.”

That had cleared up absolutely nothing. “Huh?”

Spike, on the other hand, had apparently followed the vague declaration. “I think he’s coming down with a case of expatriatism, luv.”

“Ex… Oh!” She stared at her first Watcher with rising giddiness. “You’re moving back to the US?”

“Pittsburgh, to be exact,” Giles said with a slight, indulgent smile. “That is, so long as I’m welcome?”

Buffy’s subsequent, confirmational hug had nearly broken his ribs.

Willow stayed US-side through the new year. She, with the boost of the local Pittsburgh coven, installed a permanent portal between Council HQ and the Pittsburgh dojo to make apocalypse-aversion gatherings easier.

“I have permanent portals in the world’s largest cities, but it takes too much energy and time to create many of them,” Willow said a few hours after the installation, exhaustion radiating from her every motion. “Plus, you know, gigantic security risk. We have to have a special interdimensional security company manage them, and you would not believe the rates they’re charging these days.”

Buffy hadn’t really known what to say to that. Sometimes the twenty-year gap between their lives barely seemed to matter, and other times it threw their now very different life experiences into sharp relief. In the end, she just ended up mumbling something to the effect of “Yeah, I bet.”

Willow had left through said portal a day later to get back to her home and normal job responsibilities in London. Evidently, the Council would contact Spike about any world-threatening Big Bads when they arose, but otherwise he and Buffy were free to patrol their own little corner of the world in Pittsburgh—something she hadn’t actually gotten to do since her most recent Calling.

It sounded nice and normal and—after everything with Ammit—easy. Of course, her first night patrolling back home with Spike ended up having the absolute worst timing.

“Stupid Taylor Swift,” Buffy muttered as they sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic trying to get across the river to the Sheraden neighborhood. The top 40 wonder was playing at Carnegie Music Hall, and apparently every person in Pennsylvania was attending the damn concert.

“Not a fan, luv?” Spike asked with amusement.

“Of a spoiled little pop princess whose worst troubles in life revolve around her millions of boyfriends? Not even a little.”

Spike threw her a sly look. “Seem to recall you liked spoiled little pop princesses once upon time—have a good memory of you telling off Dawn for thieving one of your CDs from that Britney bird.”

She flushed slightly. “That was a long time ago.”

“So I won’t find a load of songs from the irritating Miss Swift on your laptop if I take a peek?”

Buffy stuck out her tongue at him. “Ass. And no. One,  _maybe_.”

When they did finally make it to Sheraden, patrol added insult to injury by being a complete bust.

Buffy glared at the lone pile of dust from a meandering fledgling. If the rumor mills in the bars had been right—and Spike’s fangs flashing in the bartenders' faces helped guarantee they were—even the vampire community had made its way to Carnegie Hall for the concert.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket and Buffy quickly pulled it out, sighing when a photo from her dad popped up on the screen. It was, inevitably, a picture of a stake with the captioned question,  _Does this one look right?_

Spike glanced over from his now-permanent place on her right, his lips quirking as he caught her expression. “Dear old dad still whittling away?”

“Unfortunately.”

It turned out that—once the shock of everything faded—Paul and Lara weren’t just okay with their daughter’s Calling, they wanted to help fulfill it.

Dad had dropped that bomb two days after Christmas as he sat contemplating his morning cup of coffee. “I bet I can make a mean stake.” He’d lifted his head to find everyone staring at him. “What? Don’t you kill– er, slay vampires with stakes?”

The ex-Sunnydale trio had exchanged bemused glances.

“You do,” Buffy had said slowly.

“Excellent,” Lara had added with a smile. She turned to Willow. “Can you write down the address for the nearest training facility when you have time?”

Willow’s brow furrowed. “Um, sure, but they won’t really have much to do with Buffy, since she’s going back to Pittsburgh.”

Lara had just waved that away. “Oh, it’s not for Buffy. Paul and I want to learn things, too.” She fixed her daughter with a determined frown. “You may have to fight evil, but there’s no reason we can’t help get as much of it out of your way as possible.”

Buffy’s jaw had dropped. “Mom. Dad.  _No_. You guys need to stay  _away_ from the bad guys! I can’t risk you getting hurt.”

Lara got a steely look in her eye that was dangerously familiar. “Honey, we’re more likely to get hurt if we can’t defend ourselves.” She turned to Spike with a tight glare. “You, Spike, are going to teach me how to be scary.”

Spike gave a breathless chuckle. “Mum, believe me, you’re a bloody natural.”

Lara had straightened with pure Gallagher pride, eyes sparkling. “Well, good.”

It hadn’t mattered what Buffy or Willow or Spike said after that. Her parents were officially waving flags for the cause. And learning how to make stakes.

She sighed again at the picture text. “You think Willow might rethink bespelling them if I beg her again?”

Spike snorted as he lit a cigarette. “You don’t mean that.”

She slumped against a street sign, facing him. “No, I don’t mean it. I just worry about them.”

Spike brushed a soft finger over her lower lip, blue eyes gentle and piercing. “Yeah, and they worry about you too, luv.” A grin flickered over his lips. “Your mum made me swear I’d text them when you and I travelled for work. So they’d know where you were going off to.”

“Of course they did.” Buffy smiled crookedly. “Hey, at least being the Slayer isn’t keeping me from seeing the world this time around.”

Spike grunted agreement, turning his head and blowing out a long breath of smoke. He eyed her from beneath lowered lashes. “You ready to brave the arctic next week?”

“Against the frost giant things?” It had been thankfully easy to find a Slayer-y reason to need to go to Alaska in mid-January. But then, something somewhere was always causing trouble. And in Alaska, it was frost giant demon things. Which meant Buffy and Spike got to take the Willow Portal Express instead of trying to hop through sixteen hours of flights while avoiding the sun.

Spike rolled his eyes. “I’m not worried about the bloody frost giants.”

“No, me neither.” She glanced out into the deserted night. Frost giants were strong but stupid, according to Wesley. Not really much to be afraid of, in the end. However, the sister she hadn’t seen in twenty years—the last remaining Summers—was an entirely different story. Anxiety crawled up her throat. “What if she hates me?”

“Why the hell would she hate you?”

“I didn’t try to find her… Reach out to her… Anything.”

That earned her another expressive grunt. “She might hate you. But the Bit knows how to hate and love at the same time. She’s had plenty of practice through the years.”

Buffy grimaced. “If you were going for a reassuring statement, that was so not it.”

 

***

 

Willow portaled them into the Council offices in Juneau just after sunset—which was 4pm this close to the arctic—and then kissed them both on the cheek before heading back through again with a cheery, “Good luck!”

Buffy watched her go with a wry grimace. “She doesn’t want to be around for the blow-up, either.”

Spike grinned. “She’s always been a smart bird.” He nudged Buffy forward, toward the front door. “C’mon, luv, let’s get an Uber.”

When the Uber dropped them off at her sister’s house, Buffy peered around for the millionth time. Juneau wasn’t anything like what she’d heard Alaska to be in the winter—some demented hellscape of ice and cold. In reality, it looked like any of a hundred wintry East Coast cities, although the glacial, pine tree-covered mountains that abutted it were a solid reminder of their northern positioning. Still, right against the coast on the edge of the Canadian continent, Juneau was actually warmer than Connecticut had been when they left, and it was slightly above freezing.

Her gaze landed on Dawn’s house, a cozy, red-sided affair on the northern side of town, with an SUV parked out front and a perfect view of the mountainscape out the back. It was potentially the most terrifying thing Buffy had seen in years.

She gripped Spike’s hand tightly within her own as she stared at the lit windows, silhouettes moving behind the blinds. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Spike tugged her forward, nearly dragging her across the slush-covered asphalt. “You did it with Rupes, Slayer. And Wes. And Wil. And even Anya, for Chrissake.”

“This isn’t the same. It’s not a ‘being ready or not’ thing.”

Exasperated blue eyes found her gaze. “No? What is it then?”

Her emotions were bubbling so incoherently that she didn’t even realize the exact truth until she said it: “She’s going to want Buffy Summers to be here, but that Buffy’s gone and she’s going to be stuck with me.”

Spike’s head tilted and he stepped close, brushing his cold lips against her forehead. “Pet,” he murmured, “even if you were still Buffy Summers, you wouldn’t be how she remembers you. And I guarantee Dawn’s not the kid sis you remember, either.”

Buffy slumped into his half embrace with a huff. “Stop being so stupidly reasonable.”

Spike pulled back and grinned at her. “Someone has to be between the two of us.” His tongue curled behind his teeth. “And I rather like you being the unreasonable one, Slayer. Means I get to try and… satisfy you.”

She shook her head at him. “Have I told you recently that you have domination issues?”

“Not in the last week or so.” His grin widened. “Still waiting for you to pull out those chains from the cedar chest.”

Her face flamed red. Officially moving in with Spike after Christmas had been a weird experience. In some ways, it had been like any other normal couple move-in scenario… until she found the pile of his and Angel’s boudoir photos from the 1890’s in the bottom dresser drawer, and the set of used-looking chains in the cedar chest (that she deeply suspected were the same ones he’d bound her up with in Sunnydale way back when), and the disturbing collection of military dog tags in his jewelry box.

“How’d you know I saw those?”

Spike smirked at her. “You keep looking in that direction when we’re in bed and your heart rate hitches up.” He bit his lip in an unfairly sexy manner. “I’ve got lots of other goodies in there, too.”

She covered her next blush with a look of defiant mischief. “Oh yeah? Including that leather strap-on you want me to wear?”

Spike’s eyes darkened and a growl rumbled from his chest. “No, but now I’m getting one as soon as we get back.”

Buffy laughed despite herself and leaned forward, nuzzling his neck with resigned affection. “You jerk.”

Spike laughed softly. “The distraction worked then?”

“It did. But we’d better get this reunion over with now. My toes are getting cold.”

Spike knocked on the door this time, and it was flung open nearly as soon as his hand touched the wood.

“Finally! I thought you guys were going to stand out there forever.”

And there was Dawn Summers. She was still incredibly leggy and tall, her once long brown locks now auburn and thrown up into a messy ponytail. She was dressed in a thick sweater and jeans, and looked so entirely herself and yet  _grown-up_ that Buffy found herself frozen in place, staring at her sister’s face and completely lost in a welter of memories.

“Hey, Spike’s girlfriend,” Dawn said with an edge of impatience, “getting inside would be good right about now.”

Buffy snapped back to reality with a shake of her head. “Sorry,” she murmured, stepping inside to let Dawn close the door. She made to say something else, but Dawn was already otherwise occupied, nearly leaping into Spike’s arms.

“You butthead,” Dawn said fondly to the vampire. “I know you’re back to dating and everything, but that’s no reason to neglect your family visits.”

Spike pressed a swift, chaste kiss to her cheek. “Sorry, Bit, life’s been hectic.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “You screwing your new girlfriend into the ground does  _not_  count on the busy-ness meter. You know that, right?”

Buffy’s face flushed bright red. Geez, had Dawn always been that blunt? No doubt her previous tendencies had only been encouraged by Spike through the years. She quietly cleared her throat as she anxiously shifted her hands in her pockets.

Thankfully, Spike got the message and stepped back to give Buffy a warm smile. “I know it, Nibblet. And be nice. My girl’s a classy lady. Meg, this is Dawn. Dawn, this is Meg Gallagher–” He faltered, then added, “The current Slayer.”

Dawn’s wary skepticism faded into outright disbelief. “You’re dating the  _Slayer_?”

Buffy stepped forward with her shoulders set. “He is.”

Dawn all but ignored her, fixing Spike with a fiery glare. “We are going to talk about this. Now.” She grabbed Spike’s sleeve and started to drag him away, pausing only briefly to give Buffy a tight smile. “Excuse us for a minute.”

Then they were out of sight.

Buffy cast around helplessly in the entryway, startling as a mid-thirties looking guy entered the room, waving in sheepish greeting. “Hey there. Sorry, I just caught the end of things.” He held out his hand for her to shake, smiling when she took it. “I’m Bryan. Dawn’s husband.”

“Meg Gallagher,” Buffy said thickly. “Spike’s, um, girlfriend.”

Bryan gave her a lopsided smile. “I heard.” He motioned toward the coatrack next to her. “Please, get comfortable. I promise we’re not insane here. Mostly. Dawn and Spike just have a special relationship.”

As if on cue, the screeching tones of the remaining Summers sounded from around the corner: “Are you stupid or just trying to be miserable for the rest of forever?”

Spike made some kind of inaudible reply, followed by Dawn’s even louder exclamation of, “Oh, really? Because I’m getting some major masochism vibes here, which need to get knocked off ASAP.”

Bryan winced. “Sorry again.”

Buffy pulled off her coat with a shrug and hung it up. “It’s fine, really. She cares.”

Bryan offered her a warm, thankful smile. “Sometimes I’m really not sure who raised who.”

A pang hit Buffy’s stomach. Was that what it felt like to Dawn? That Spike had raised her? God, in the scheme of things, it was probably true. She’d only truly been alive for less than two years by the time both Joyce and Buffy were gone; the rest of the time would’ve been with Aunt Arlene and Spike.

Dawn stormed back into the room a moment later, looking furious. Spike was a step behind her, growling.

“Bit, calm down!”

Dawn whirled on him, eyes flashing. “Why should I calm down? This Slayer’s going to die in a couple years and then you’ll be in mourning  _again_  and I’ll have to pick up the pieces. Seriously, you couldn’t have decided to date one of the 99.9% of women who aren’t the freaking Slayer? Jesus, Spike!”

Buffy stiffened. Enough was enough. She stepped forward into her sister’s line of vision. “Dawn. Stop. It’s me.”

Dawn paused, staring at her in irritated confusion. “You who? I don’t know you.”

“I…” Buffy hesitated, gaining courage as Spike strode close and laced his fingers with hers. “You do know me. Kind of. I am– I  _was_  Buffy, your sister. I’m just, um, in a different body these days.”

Dawn’s expression flashed through confusion and disbelief and anger in quick succession. Without saying a word, she whirled and quickly rummaged through the side table in the entryway, coming back with a small gun.

Oh shit.

She cocked the weapon at Buffy. “I don’t know what you are, but you’re going to get away from my family right now.”

Spike drew in a sharp breath and moved to intervene. “Dawn, put that down.”

Dawn just glared at him, her aim steady. “Some crazy bitch or demon is pretending to be my sister! And you fell for it!” When she looked back at Buffy, there were furious tears in her eyes. “I hate you, whatever you are. You don’t get to do this to Spike. Or me.” Her eyes narrowed as Spike slid in front of Buffy’s body. “Spike, don’t be stupid. I’ll just shoot through you, you know.”

Bryan watched them all wide-eyed from a safe distance. “Dawn. Honey…”

“Not right now, Bryan. I have some evil thing to send packing.”

Buffy sagged behind Spike’s back even as the vampire straightened angrily in front of her. “Bit, I’m not bloody stupid. And I’ll have you know I nearly wrung Buffy’s neck thinking the same thing as you at first. But it  _is_  her, alright? A nice little consequence of Red’s resurrection spell. You can call Red and confirm. Wes, too. And Rupert.”

There was silence. Buffy peeked around Spike’s shoulder to find her sister’s expression conflicted and her gun arm wavering.

“If you’re telling the truth…” Dawn’s arm dropped abruptly, her mien crowded with hurt. “Wait… Willow and all the others knew about this before me?”

Buffy slid out from behind Spike with an apologetic wince. “I’m sorry, Dawnie. It wasn’t on purpose. I got Called last month and then had an apocalypse looming right away… There wasn’t time to come.”

Dawn stared at her, her chin wobbling. “You… you could have called me.” Her hurt shifted to indignant anger. It seemed her mood swings hadn’t just been a product of teenage angst. “Wait just a minute. You already went through an  _apocalypse_?  _Without me_?!”

“Um…” Buffy looked helplessly toward Spike. “I did. I’m… sorry?”

Dawn huffed angrily and flipped the safety back on her gun, slamming it into the table drawer. She turned back to Buffy with a withering stare. “You really suck, you know that? Turning up after twenty years in– in a new body and… and…” Dawn’s voice trailed off, her expression turning increasingly teary and overwhelmed. “B… Buffy? Are you really here?”

Buffy offered her sister a shaky smile. “I’m really here.”

Tears spilled down Dawn’s face. “You,” she managed with unconvincing anger, “have a lot of explaining to do.”

Then she barreled forward and threw herself into Buffy’s arms.


	30. Sisters

Buffy was sure she was in for a long night of being grilled for the hundredth time about her new life, but Dawn defied all expectation: once the remaining Summers heard that Giles had already chronicled her sister’s transmigration, she’d demanded the digital copy of his notes (thank god Willow had scanned them when they’d been at Council HQ) and then proceeded to barricade herself inside her home office to read.

Bryan just shrugged wryly as Dawn all but slammed the study door shut. “It’s the scholar in her. She’d rather read the book.”

Spike snorted and sprawled across Dawn’s living room couch. “I’m sure Red and Rupert will be getting calls, too. Checking sources and all that.”

Buffy huffed—feeling decidedly miffed—and joined her vampire, shoving his legs off the couch cushions. “Well, I’m sort of the primary source here.”

“Yeah, and you already gave your statement in that heap of digital paper, pet.”

Buffy crossed her arms mulishly. “Still.”

Spike lifted a brow. “Don’t tell me you actually wanted to repeat everything again.”

“No, but… that’s not really the point.”

Bryan offered a rueful smile. “Trust me, if I know my wife, there’ll be plenty of questions left after she’s done.”

Buffy surveyed him curiously. “You seem majorly unbothered by this.”

A soft laugh escaped Bryan's lips. “I’m married to a woman who’s an ancient interdimensional key, who was raised by a vampire, and who studies demon cultures for a living. Sorry, but an unexpected family reunion with her previously dead superhero sister doesn’t exactly raise the bar.”

Buffy’s jaw dropped and she turned to Spike, flabbergasted. “He knows everything? And my sister studies  _demon cultures_?”

Spike’s lips twitched. “He does. And she does.”

“She sells her research reports to the Watcher’s Council, among other interested organizations,” Bryan added.

Buffy eyed Dawn’s husband carefully. He was an innocuous-looking guy, all boyish and sandy haired, but there was something in the edges of him that set her supernatural senses on alert. “Are you human?”

Bryan shrugged. “As much as anyone from a family of necromancers can be.”

He said it so casually that Buffy was sure he was joking... until the moment stretched on without a smile or confirmation of the joke. She glanced over at Spike; he just quirked a brow at her. Oh, geez. Trust Dawn to marry a freaking necromancer. “So the ‘previously dead’ part of my return  _really_  doesn’t raise the bar.”

“Maybe even lowers it.”

“I think I’m insulted.”

Bryan laughed and lowered himself into the armchair across from them. “That’s why Dawn and I started talking, actually. She heard about my family—about what we do.”

Buffy stiffened. “Don’t tell me she was going to try and have me brought back again.”

Bryan shook his head vehemently. “God, no."

"I'd have sodding killed her," Spike growled.

"And I wouldn’t have done it," Bryan added calmly. "You should never bring a person back from death twice. And probably  _never_  for someone like you. There’s too much that can get unbalanced, as your friends apparently found out.” He paused and surveyed her critically. “Not that it seems to have stopped someone from doing it to you a third time.”

“It’s a long story. Of which Dawn is currently getting the details.” Buffy frowned. “So, if it wasn’t about resurrecting me…”

“Necromancers don’t just bring the dead back to life; we’re also really good at communing with them. Dawn wanted to speak with you. And her mom.”

Spike shifted on the couch. Buffy glanced over at his carefully neutral face and realization hit about what must’ve happened. “But you couldn’t contact me.”

Bryan nodded slowly. “That’s right.”

“And mom?”

Spike winced. “Connection was a bit muddled with Joyce, on account of her near resurrection the year with Glory.”

Oh god, she’d almost forgotten about that. About how furious she’d been at Dawn for trying something so stupid. About the way her heart had broken all over again when Dawn broke the spell, and she'd found only an empty stoop where her mother had likely been a moment before.

Spike shifted again—no, he squirmed. Guiltily. Buffy’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you look guilty about something Dawn did?”

Spike’s guilty expression deepened. “May have helped her get the supplies, once upon at time.”

“You  _what_?”

He shrugged stiffly, his gaze down on his lap. “She was going to do it with or without me,” he said softly. “Didn’t want her getting hurt.” He swallowed. "Would never have done it after you came back. Once I knew what it meant."

“You…” Buffy exhaled loudly, her fingers digging into her thighs. “You  _idiot_.”

“Pretty much my sentiments after they told me,” Bryan added cheerfully.

“Joyce was alright, though,” Spike added, still not looking at her. He hesitated, then added in a whisper, “We didn’t know about you.”

Well, that explained a lot. No wonder Dawn and Spike had both freaked out so violently at finding her in a new body. Anything could have happened to her spirit—anything could have stolen her memories or her mind—so far as they knew. The chances of her appearing and actually being  _her_  were probably slim to none. But then, she’d always been good at beating impossible odds.

“Daddy?”

Buffy’s gaze darted to the edge of the living room, where a little girl of four or five stood, looking startlingly, impossibly familiar.

“Yeah, she looks a lot like you,” Spike confirmed as he slid closer to her on the couch, correctly gauging her expression. “The Bit showed me pictures of you as a sprog. Maddy’s a damn near spitting image.”

The little girl turned her head, eyes widening. “Uncle Spike, you’re back!” She squealed at a decibel level that had to be hereditary and darted toward the couch, practically throwing her little body into Spike’s lap.

Spike grinned and caught her, lifting her up by her armpits as he slid into game face. “That’s right, platelet. The Big Bad’s back and he’s going to eat you right up.” He mock growled at her and mimed biting her stomach, tickling her as she shrieked with delight.

Bryan smiled tolerantly and gave Buffy a wry look. “Bet you can guess who the favorite uncle is.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “I’m sure he spoils them rotten.”

“Completely and utterly,” Spike agreed unrepentantly. He kissed Maddy solidly on the forehead and swung her down into his lap, nodding toward Buffy. “Now, sweetling, you remember your mum talking about Aunt Buffy, yeah?” Maddy nodded, eying Buffy hesitantly. “This is her. Say hello.”

Maddy frowned. “But Auntie Buffy had blonde hair like me. Momma showed me.”

Buffy barely held in a laugh. ‘Auntie Buffy’ was long dead and not nearly the right age or bone structure, but apparently what mattered was the hair.

Spike’s lips twitched in equal amusement. “Well, she dyed it.”

“Oh.” Maddy squirmed and gave her a shy smile. “Hi, Auntie Buffy.”

Buffy swallowed, her voice catching in her throat. “Hi, Maddy.”

Spike bounced Maddy on his lap. “And where’s your workie ticket of a brother?”

Bryan sighed as he stood. “Knowing Eli, he’s off trying to resurrect his pet cricket.” He grimaced. “Excuse me while I likely go prevent a minor blood ritual.”

Buffy stared after Bryan as he strode quickly from the room. “Is this normal for Dawn’s family?”

Spike grinned. “She’s a Summers, pet. What do you think?”

“So this is a good day.”

“Got it in one.”

 

***

 

Two hours later found them gathered in Dawn’s eat-in kitchen with Bryan valiantly trying to convince Maddy to eat the vegetables in her mac and cheese, while Eli sullenly picked at his own dinner—Bryan had flushed the to-be-resurrected cricket down the toilet and confiscated the pilfered sewing needle.

There’d already been a tearful breakdown as both Bryan and Spike chastised Eli, the boy finally bursting out with a defiant, “I wouldn’t have cared if Cricky didn’t come back the same. I’d still have loved him!”

Spike’s head had bowed, his chest heaving. “As well you should,” he whispered. “But what if you bringing your little chum back left him in constant pain, platelet? What if you ripped him out of bloody cricket heaven because you didn’t know what the hell you were doing? What then?”

“Then… then…” Eli’s face screwed up and he burst into tears. “Then I’d kill him so he could go back.”

Spike had turned on his heel at that and headed straight into Buffy’s arms, leaving Bryan to finish the conversation. Her vampire buried his face in her neck, and cold tears tracked down her skin.

“Would that have been better?” he asked hoarsely against her throat. “If there wasn’t the transmigration bollocks—should I have found a way to do that?”

It wasn’t a thought she’d ever actually considered at the time. Oh, she’d imagined a million different ways to get back to heaven after rising from her grave, but they’d all been avenues of her own making: jumping from the tower again, slicing her veins from her wrists up to her elbows, picking a fight she knew she couldn’t win. Her returns to life had always been controlled by others, but she had controlled her deaths. “No,” Buffy said finally, her own eyes wet. “Buffy Summers died the way she wanted to.”

They’d all ended up a bit subdued at the kitchen table.

But true to form, Dawn’s presence disrupted any and every longstanding mood. The remaining Summers swept into the kitchen, her arms heavy with books and her mouth set into a stubborn, grim line.

Bryan blinked as she dumped the books next to him. “Honey?”

“Buffy’s stuck in a transmigration loop connected back to Osiris,” Dawn said matter-of-factly. “Willow said she’s working on it with the others, but I told her you’d be weighing in as an expert, okay?”

Bryan looked barely fazed. Of course, being married to Dawn was probably like being in wedlock with a hurricane—he’d likely had to learn how to withstand pretty much any wind speed. “Sure.”

Dawn nodded and turned to Buffy, her eyes narrowing. Uh oh. “So. When am I meeting the rest of the new family? I hear Willow and Giles already  _got to spend Christmas with you guys_.”

Buffy cringed guiltily, then paused, wrinkling her nose. “Since when are you the disappointed big sister?”

Dawn snorted, a small smile flickering on her lips. “Since you decided to start the caterpillar life cycle all over again, I guess.”

Buffy shifted self-consciously. “Do I… I know I’m different.”

Dawn shrugged. “It’s been twenty years, Buffy. We’re all different.”

Spike smirked at Buffy. “Believe I said something almost exactly to that effect.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Buffy mumbled.

“Auntie Buffy dyed her hair,” Maddy added helpfully in between bites of macaroni.

Dawn’s expression softened as she sank down next to her daughter, eyes still on Buffy. “Yeah, she did, Mads.” A small, watery smile crossed her face. “It looks pretty, don’t you think?”

Buffy’s vision blurred as Maddy nodded, but she continued to hold Dawn’s eyes—eyes that looked terribly like their mom’s, she realized.

Dawn cleared her throat, her expression turning slightly disapproving. Which really didn’t do anything to lessen the resemblance to Joyce Summers. “Some things haven’t changed though. You two still kill first and ask questions later.” When Buffy and Spike both frowned in confusion, she added, “Willow mentioned you’re here to take out the pruins.”

Spike shrugged. “That was just an excuse to come see you and use the Council portals, Bit.”

Dawn’s eyes narrowed. “But you’re still going to kill them.”

Buffy scrunched up her nose. “We’re talking about the frost giant-y demons, right?”

“We’re talking about one of the species whose migrations I’ve been studying for three years.”

“Oh." Buffy winced. "Sorry. Why didn’t Willow say anything to us?”

“It wasn’t research I’d shared with the Council yet. Well, until tonight,” Dawn said with a sigh. “The pruins aren’t super interesting in the scheme of things. They’re dumb and super territorial. Which is what’s causing the problem, by the way. Global warming’s not just affecting the non-magical species—the pruin are getting shoved closer together and it's changing things for the worse.”

"Well, 'worse' has apparently included human casualties."

Dawn’s shoulders slumped. “I know.” Her expression brightened slightly. “But, hey, if my research is done, we can finally move again. Bryan’s not a huge fan of Alaska.”

Bryan grimaced. “Not my favorite place we’ve lived, for sure.”

Buffy’s brow furrowed at the odd shift in topic. “Well, that’s… exciting? Any ideas where you guys want to go next?”

That earned her Dawn’s patented  _god-how-are-you-not-getting-this_  look. “Pittsburgh.”

Buffy’s heart skipped a beat. "Really?”

Dawn swiped a piece of carrot off Maddy’s plate and fondly rolled her eyes. “It’s where you and Spike both are. I mean, geez, Buffy, where else would we go?”

 

***

 

“By the way, I told you so.”

Buffy glanced over at her sister, who was bundled head to toe in outerwear as they trudged along a snowy mountain path. They’d had to head inland into Canada to find the pruins, and the temperature was markedly more frigid. Even Spike was wearing a hat and gloves, which looked ridiculous with his leather coat and his demon face. He stayed about a hundred feet ahead of the sisters as he tracked the demons and also subtly let them have some privacy.

“You told me so about what?” Buffy asked in amusement.

“Spike. I knew you guys would be great together back in Sunnydale, but you never listened to me.”

Buffy grimaced. “There were a lot of complications in Sunnydale.”

Dawn scoffed incredulously. “What, like there aren’t now?”

“They’re different now.”

Dawn was quiet for a moment, then she said very softly, “I didn’t call Sweet, you know. The demon that made you… made you dance.”

“I know. Spike said it was Xander.” Buffy nibbled on her bottom lip. “When I first found Spike, he said Xander had cut off contact with everyone after he and Anya broke up.”

Dawn sighed. “Yeah. It was a bad time. But he still sends Willow a letter about once every six months, mostly because she threatened to chain him in her apartment in London if he didn’t at least let her know he was alive every once in a while.”

“I bet that’s been hard on her.”

“For the first ten years or so. Now it’s just kind of how things are.”

Spike paused ahead of them and turned around, raising a finger to his lips. At Buffy’s questioning motion, he pointed in the eleven o’clock direction. Buffy slid the Chinese sabre from its scabbard on her back and crept forward.

There was a small valley spread out in front of them, with several lumbering white shapes shifting around in the snow. They were bipedal and looked vaguely humanoid, their massive frames craggy with what seemed to be a mix of glacier ice and snow. Their faces were hairy and tusked, with dark, heavily browed eyes.

Spike drew his axe and gave Dawn a hard look when she revealed her own short sword hidden beneath her coat. “You stay back, Bit. This is for the Slayer and me to take care of.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. “I know. But I’m not about to just stand around if one heads in my direction.”

Buffy gave her a pointed look. “I’m surprised you didn’t just bring your gun.”

“Bullets would bounce off,” Dawn said blandly. “Spike taught me to use the appropriate weapon for the situation. Sister impersonators get guns and pruins get swords.”

“Please tell me I’m the first sister claimant to show up on your doorstep.”

“Oh, we get about one a year,” Dawn said innocently. “I buried the body of the last one in the backyard.”

Buffy shook her head in resignation as she caught Spike’s amused grin. “You corrupted her.”

“Didn’t really take all that much effort, luv.” He jerked his head toward the valley and frost demons. “Shall we?”

“Let’s.”

Compared to Ammit, most demons now looked miniscule by comparison, although the pruins were still nothing to sneeze at—the shortest one was six feet tall.

“You remember where to hit them at?” Spike asked lowly as they descended on quiet, predatory feet into the valley.

“Neck or legs.”

Spike nodded tersely, his amber eyes glittering in the snowy dark. “Be careful, Slayer.”

“You too, Watcher mine.”

Spike glowered at her but didn’t comment, instead concentrating on their nearest demon target.

According to Dawn, the pruin were traditionally solitary, but they’d recently started forming small tribes instead of just fighting to the death upon discovery of an interloper—probably because the interlopers started outnumbering the native pruin. (A fascinating development, according to Dawn, who had looked mournfully at her research.) Unfortunately, the tribes were a lot more dangerous than the individuals had ever been, and far braver. They’d started wandering into small fishing villages and wrecking everything in sight, including people.

Which meant it was time for an apex predator to thin the herd a bit. Buffy adjusted her grip on her sabre, the thrum of the Slayer weapon resonating through her gloves.

The nearest pruin lumbered closer, frost spraying from its gray lips—a walking demonic mountain. Thankfully, when it saw her, she was small enough that the demon registered her as ‘prey’ instead of ‘predator’ and it just broke into a small jog in her direction instead of sounding the alarm call. However, Spike sprinting up its back and thrusting his axe into its neck while Buffy sliced into its shinbone sort of screwed up that categorization, and it bellowed angrily as it fell to the ground. Spike leapt away as the behemoth sank, rolling gracefully to the snow. He sprang to his feet with a fanged grin.

“One down, three to go, pet.”

Buffy wiped her sabre on the snow and eyed the angry demons now galloping their way. “I get to climb up the next one.”

 

***

 

Dawn wrinkled her nose as Buffy and Spike made their gore-ridden way back up the incline at the edge of the valley. The last demon had seriously not taken well to the idea of dying. “You guys are going to stink up my car.”

Spike grunted and wiped a chunk of demon ice skin off his jeans. “Send the cleaning bill to the Council, Bit.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Wes is going to so regret putting you on the official payroll before the end of the year.”

A wicked grin crossed Spike's features. “That’s the plan, luv.”

Dawn snorted and turned, heading back the way they'd come. “Let’s go home before my fingers freeze off. Where you will both shower immediately. And then you can help Bryan and me start packing.”


	31. Happy Birthday, Mr. the Bloody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been wondering when a couple of this fic's more colorful tags were going to start becoming relevant... wonder no more! Thank you all for your patience and for putting up with my constant, subtle-as-a-sledgehammer foreshadowing/teasing <3

Spike’s eyes snapped open as Buffy clasped the first shackle around his wrist, the other end already attached to the bed's reinforced headboard. He shifted his head to survey his now eye-level wrist then turned smoldering eyes on Buffy where she stood naked by his side of the bed, shadowed in soft lamplight.

“Well, well. And it’s not even my birthday.”

Buffy lifted a brow, flicking on her cell phone so he could see the screen. 12:07am. “Actually, it is. April ninth, remember?”

Spike gave a startled bark of laughter. “Now I know why you wanted to head off to bed at an ungodly early hour, you sly minx.”

“Uh huh.”

Spike tugged experimentally at the shackle, grinning when it held. “Well, fuck me.”

Buffy took a deep, purposeful breath, steadying her nerves. “That’s pretty much the idea.”

Something in the weight of her voice must have tipped him off. Spike’s eyes widened, his lips parting as his gaze snapped back to her. “You mean that?”

“Oh, like you haven’t been expecting it.”

Shortly after their Alaskan excursion, Spike had dragged her to a Pittsburgh sex shop and foisted half the store’s stock of strap-on harnesses on her until they found one that they both liked. Black leather, of course.

The dildo shopping had been another matter entirely, with Spike immediately and disconcertingly zeroing in on the general size and shape that he wanted. She’d just stared at him as he evaluated a dildo in each palm, debating between the different curvatures. “Do I even want to know how you know your preferences so well?”

Spike glanced up. “That’s easy, Slayer. Dru and me broke into a sex shop once and she rogered me with everything in the aisle.”

Yep, that definitely went in the ‘did not need to know  _ever_ ’ box.

After leaving the shop with Spike’s red-letter bag of stuff, she’d thought the vampire would at least tease her about testing out the purchases immediately. But no—he stuck the bag in the cedar chest upon their arrival home and never brought it up again.

But it had still been in there. For  _months._

“I wasn’t expecting it. I was encouraging it,” Spike corrected.

“Preparing for it.”

Now it was Spike’s turn to lift a brow. “Hard to encourage the activity if the hardware’s not lying about.”

Well, he had her there. She grabbed the other shackle and walked around the foot of the bed to her side, Spike’s eyes following her the entire way. She chained one end to the headboard, hesitating as Spike held out his wrist for her to attach to the remaining end. “This isn’t too much, right? Doing both things tonight?”

Spike gave a breathless laugh. “God, no, Buffy. It’s perfect.”

She attached the other shackle. “Good.” She licked her lips and retreated to the doorway. “Now, you stay.”

Spike’s eyes were laughingly bright. “Don’t think I can disobey if I wanted to, pet.”

“Good,” she said again, more imperiously, and barely held in a smile at Spike’s somewhat more strained rumble of agreement. Then she fled into the hallway, where she’d set up the strap-on harness after watching an embarrassing number of YouTube videos. It slid easily up her naked form and she used the absurd amount of adjustable straps to secure it in place. In the end, it felt mostly like she was wearing rock-climbing gear naked. If rock-climbing gear had a purple dildo attached to the front. It was awkward and odd and… undeniably fascinating. She brushed a hand over the silicone dildo, suppressing a laugh as it bounced slightly. Still, she couldn’t help a small smile as she strode back toward the bedroom, the dildo swaying in time with her steps.

“Oh, Christ,” Spike said hoarsely as he caught sight of her. “You’re magnificent.”

Buffy crossed her arms under her breasts and leaned a shoulder against the doorway. “Should I worry that you’re so captivated by me with a penis?”

Spike’s eyes were still devouring her. “What I’m captivated by, luv,” he said slowly, huskily, “is the idea that you’re going to be inside me soon with more than just your blood.” He swallowed roughly. “It’s been a while, you know. Probably almost forty years. That’s a long time to not have the person I love inside me.”

Tender, stunned realization coursed through her. “I didn’t realize that’s what… what this means to you.”

Spike sat up as far he could with the shackles, his expression soft. “Yeah, Buffy, that’s what it means to me. Now, come closer, will you? Want to see you better.”

Her awkwardness dissipated as if it had never been, and she sauntered slowly toward the bed. That’s all Spike wanted from this—to feel loved. It didn’t matter if she did it awkwardly or stupidly or wrong. She paused a foot from the bed, letting him drink her in.

“There's one rule," she said firmly, raising a finger.

“Just one, pet?”

“Just one.”

“Right then. Out with it.”

“No stake jokes.” Spike burst out laughing, and she pursed her lips. “I’m not kidding.”

“You’re taking all the fun out of it, Slayer.”

Buffy reached for the straps of her harness. “Well, if you’re not having fun, I’ll just–”

“Don’t. You. Dare.” Spike’s laughter was gone and he was predatorily still, a dangerous growl emanating from his throat that belied the fact that he was currently in chains.

Buffy grinned and crawled up the end of the bed, pressing kisses to the inside of his knees as she went, the dildo bobbing between them. “Don’t worry, birthday boy, I’m not going to leave you unloved.”

Spike drew in a sharp breath, spreading his legs further as she moved up them. “My gorgeous firebrand,” he murmured, reaching out to touch her hair—only to be pulled up short by the shackles.

“Lay back,” Buffy demanded, pushing at his chest. “Tonight, I’m the one touching  _you_.”

She expected a sassy reply, but Spike just laid back against his pillow without complaint, smiling faintly and not even pulling at the chains. He was completely open and vulnerable under her and it struck an odd chord in her breast, knowing that he was at her mercy—that she was responsible for what happened to him now.

Spike lifted his head again. “What’s going in that noggin of yours?”

She shook her head slightly as she traced a hand down his sternum and watched his muscles shiver. “I thought… I thought I’d feel powerful here like this. And I do, but not really any more than usual. Mostly, I feel…”

“Protective?”

She nodded.

The edges of Spike’s eyes crinkled up as he smiled. “Then we’re doing it right. That’s what bondage is about—me trusting you and you respecting me.”

Buffy knew she looked skeptical. “Even the hardcore torture-y kind? With the whips and hot wax and humiliation? That’s  _respectful_  if I do that to you?”

Spike snorted a laugh. “Believe it or not, yeah. But only when both people want it.” He paused, sobering slightly. “And that’s the difference between cruelty and bondage, you understand?”

Her stroking hand slid to pinch his right nipple and Spike gave a little gasp. “I promise to not be cruel.”

“And I promise to want whatever you want to do to me.” The edges of his smirk reappeared. “You have a blank check with my body, Slayer.”

"So I do." The idea was sort of frightening, so full of open ends and possibilities. But, thankfully, her direction for tonight's festivities was easily found—bright purple as it dragged across Spike’s belly.

She leaned forward and captured his lips, her arms sliding to his forearms and holding tight. He had absurdly full lips for a man and she had never quite figured out how he kept them so soft. She invaded his mouth with her tongue, brushing his teeth and the edges of his fangs as he groaned his pleasure. She pulled back after a moment.

“Vamp for me.”

Surprise slackened Spike's features but he slid cleanly into game face without questioning, his sleek bone structure shifting fluidly into deep brow ridges and golden eyes.

Buffy bent back down and kissed him again, smiling slightly as his muscles jerked in further surprise. But he eagerly complied, mouthing her carefully around his fangs. She nipped at his still soft lips before slipping her tongue in against his. His teeth were sharper this way—butter knife bluntness shifted to a razor’s edge—and she nicked herself against them as she traced around his gums.

Spike groaned and shivered, his already hard cock stiffening further against her thigh. “Buffy.”

She pulled away with a small, mischievous smile. “I’m going to screw you in the ass.”

Spike’s glazed expression darkened and he inhaled sharply. “Fuck, Buffy.”

She reached over his body and grabbed the bottle of lube from the nightstand, squirting it generously over the purple surfaces of the dildo and her hands. She slid her slick fingers up Spike’s thighs and cupped his balls as he whimpered—the sound sounding ferally animalistic with him in game face.

“Pick the face you want, okay?”

Spike slid back to human without hesitation. “Another time for that,” he whispered. “But this time…”

“I know.” Her left hand gripped his cock and stroked it slowly as her right slid down further between his thighs. He lifted up his legs to give her better access, knees bent back toward his ribs. His hands grabbed the chains of his shackles above his head.

For a moment, Buffy just admired him; the sleek lines of his thighs, and the curves of his ass cheeks, and the seam that ran the length of his perineum. He was only lightly haired and the starred, ridged bud of his asshole was clearly visible, some of the darkest skin on his body. She brushed her fingers across it and Spike jerked against the manacles with an incoherent curse. His cock pulsed in the grip of her other hand.

She drew in a deep breath and pressed her index finger against his opening more firmly until the band of muscles gave way to his inner walls. She wiggled a bit in the cool slickness and Spike shuddered, his eyes squeezing shut and his breath escaping in a heavy pant.

“Oh god, yeah. Just like that.”

She brushed her finger pad around the soft walls, trying to find the harder part that denoted his prostate. “I don’t feel the place.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Spike said hoarsely. “You’ll find it with the strap-on.”

She continued stroking his cock in a steady rhythm as she worked her finger to loosen him. “Do you need me to add more fingers?”

He shook his head, his entire body trembling. “No, I can take you now. Just go slow.”

She slid her finger out langorously, but Spike still quaked as it left him. She added another layer of lube to her hands and the dildo, then shifted on her knees, bracing her left hand around his asshole as the other guided the dildo forward, letting it rest against his sphincter.

“You’ll let me know if it feels bad?”

“Always.”

She tilted her hips forward and slowly pushed until the muscle gave way, slightly disappointed that she couldn’t feel the sensation the same way she'd felt it with her finger—that she couldn’t give him the experience of knowing someone was feeling the inside of him this way.

Spike cried out as she entered him, and she paused until he raggedly murmured, “Yes, fuck, please.” Her hips felt shaky, unused to the motion and the angle, and she bit her lip as she continued to inch into him. By the time she had half the length of the dildo in, Spike was unabashedly gasping and writhing, completely laid bare.

“It’s good like this?”

Blue eyes fixed on hers, hazy with pleasure. “It’s perfect, Buffy.” She slid in another inch and he moaned. “You’re fucking me perfectly.”

She bent down and brushed a kiss to his slim stomach, all of his muscles taut and quivering. Warmth and love rushed through her in a wave, making her wet inside the harness. “I love you.”

“Love you,” he agreed fervently. His eyes fluttered shut, his nostrils flaring. “Give me the rest now. Please.”

Gripping his upper thighs for support, she let the rest of the dildo slide in. Spike’s back arched off the bed, his mouth open in a keening howl. “Fuck fuck fuck.  _Yes_.”

Thrusting was almost instinctual after that, the weight of the harness pressing against her swelling clit. She rocked in the harness and flexed her butt muscles, nearly losing herself to the motion as Spike panted helplessly beneath her.

He cried out when she shifted slightly on her knees, his eyes widening. “There. God, oh god, right there.”

Steeling her stance, she pushed her hips forward and back in a rolling motion, using her left hand to again stroke his cock, the usually pale flesh now red and desperate.

She’d never seen Spike so unmade. For all the times that she could barely press a word past her lips from the overwhelming pleasure, she doubted Spike could even  _think_  of one that wasn’t in the litany of “More, yes, oh fuck, luv, harder, yes.”

He came violently and enthrallingly, his come splattering his belly as his entire body arched off the bed, a cry slipping from his throat that the entire apartment building probably heard. Buffy stroked him gently through the aftershocks, his hips jerking spasmodically.

When he quieted, she carefully slid out of him and climbed off the bed, fumbling with the straps to the harness. “Gotta clean this,” she murmured.

Spike shivered, the manacles clanking. “It’ll keep,” he whispered. “Come back.”

She obediently slid out of the harness and let it lie on the floor, climbing back onto the bed and pressing herself against the length of him. She laughed slightly at his still stunned, slack expression as she cleaned off his stomach and her hands with a nearby towel. “Did I turn you into a vegetable?”

“Very nearly, pet.” He drew in a shuddering breath, looking at her with a level of wonder and love that always left her a little breathless. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She pressed a kiss to the side of his mouth, then twisted to reach for the shackles key on the nightstand.

“No. Leave them.”

Buffy turned back to him with a raised brow. “That’s going to be a really uncomfortable position to sleep in.”

Spike smirked at her, tongue snaking behind his teeth. “I’m not going back to sleep, Slayer.”

“Oh? Have other birthday plans?”

“Many.” He fixed her with a predator’s stare. “And all of them start with you sitting on my face.”

Anticipation shivered through her, the stickiness between her thighs growing heavier. “Well, I guess I’d better keep with the schedule then.”

She lifted herself back to her knees, swinging a leg over so that she was straddling Spike’s face, her arms braced against the headboard—the third of its kind. They’d broken the first two in the same month, and Spike had smartly hired a witch from one of the local covens to put a durability spell on the third.

Spike’s cool breath hit her folds and she moaned helplessly. “You like this, don’t you,” Spike said purringly to her pussy, apparently having regained his full vocal faculties. “Your very own vampire sex slave all tied up and ready to service you.” A tongue swiped down her folds and she keened, bowing against the headboard. “Oh yeah, it’s made you all wet, buggering me like you did.” Another swipe. A shock of heat lanced up her spine. “I can tell how much you liked fucking me, getting that pretty harness all soaked in your juices.” His tongue swirled over her clit, and her lower belly filled with electric pleasure. “My naughty firebrand Slayer.”

A few more tongue strokes and she was done for. Her orgasm burst through her, leaving her a shuddering, heaving mess as Spike eagerly lapped up her spendings. She toppled to the side with a woozy exhalation, shaking her head at her very pleased vampire. “This was supposed to be me pleasuring you this morning.”

Spike slowly licked his lips, his eyes half lidded. “Oh, pet. That  _was_  you pleasuring me.”

Buffy laughed and grabbed for the shackles key. “Happy birthday, Spike.”

 

***

 

The rest of Spike’s birthday celebrations were notably PG rated, with full attendance that night by the ex-Sunnydale crew at Dawn and Bryan’s new house in the East End area—only a few streets down from Giles’s equally new abode. Maddy and Eli helped Spike blow out his candles (one for every 25 years, give or take) and everyone politely didn’t cringe when Spike poured blood over his slice of cake.

It had been a whirlwind three months since Alaska. And thankfully lacking in too many severe worldwide issues, giving them all time to get settled. Giles had already scoped out the libraries and museums with rare collections, and seemed delighted by the active live music scene in Pittsburgh. Dawn and Bryan had gotten the kids enrolled in their new schools and started connecting with the local universities. Not to mention the bimonthly trips they'd all been taking to Connecticut in order to visit the "grandparents." Paul and Lara had been shocked when Dawn introduced them to the kids that way, and Dawn had just shrugged sheepishly. "They don't have any grandparents on the Summers side of things. And since I'm made from Buffy and Buffy is your kid now, I thought... Is that okay?" Lara had burst into tears, and Paul had looked suspiciously weepy, too. Suffice to say, Dawn and family were now honorary Gallaghers.

And now the ex-Sunnydale crew had somehow come to a point where they were celebrating Spike's one hundredth and whatever birthday together. Buffy peered around the living room in bemusement, at where Spike was in some kind of emphatic conversation with Dawn, and where Bryan and Giles were talking cordially about something that sounded suspiciously like sports. She smiled as Willow came up beside her.

“You look happy, Buffy.”

Buffy’s smile widened. “It’s hard to believe that we’re all here together after all this time.”

Willow’s answering smile was slightly faltering. “Yeah. It really is.”

Buffy turned to eye the other redhead fully, her mien turning serious. “Dawn said– she told me about Xander. About him being all incommunicado for the most part.”

Willow sighed. “He’s carrying around a bunch of guilt. I’ve tried to talk to him a bunches of times, to explain that everything was way more my fault than his, but…”

“Where is he?”

“L.A. He’s doing construction over there.” She grimaced. “After Angel took out half the city in his little apocalypse, there was a lot to rebuild. Still is.”

Buffy nibbled on her lower lip. “Do you think it would help if I went to see him?”

Willow’s gaze fell to contemplating her fingers. “I mean, it couldn’t hurt. Probably.”

“Probably?”

Her eyes lifted wearily. “He drinks a lot now. Essentially rocking the Mr. Harris 2.0 act. Dawn doesn’t know it, but he calls me sometimes when he’s really wasted. He’s been to AA a few times, but it never sticks.”

“Oh.” God, that had been one of Xander’s worst fears once upon a time—turning out like his dad. When everyone’s nightmares had been coming true in Sunnydale way back when, he’d admitted days later that he could feel himself turning into his dad near the end. But she’d finished that Nightmare on Hellmouth Street with a few solid punches and support for a traumatized boy. What had she told the sicko abuser back then? Something about her being scarier than monsters—scarier than nightmares. Buffy looked down at her new hands, still Slayer strong. Determination surged in her veins. “Do you have his address?”


	32. The Xan Man

It was beyond bizarre to be back in Los Angeles, birthplace of Buffy Anne Summers. She’d forgotten how massive was; it made Pittsburgh—with its metro population of over two million people—look like a one horse town. And the traffic was still nauseatingly bad.

Buffy sighed as they sat in the backseat of their Uber in gridlock, and watched Spike’s knee bounce impatiently in the seat next to her.

“You’d think Angel’s apocalypse would have cleared out some people,” she muttered, too lowly for their driver to hear.

Spike grunted agreement. “Did for a few years, but most of them came right back. Or new ones took their place.”

Looking down from the 20th floor of the skyscraper housing the LA Council office suite (where they arrived using the permanent portal connection between Pittsburgh and LA), it had been easy to tell the battle scars radiating out from downtown west past Hollywood and south to Hyde Park—an entire third of the city that was newer and shinier and probably cost twice as much to live in as the old third had.

It was hard to believe that this sprawling place had once felt like home. Had  _been_  home. That it had been the place Buffy Summers had her first kiss; staked her first vampire; burned down her first school gym. But then, it had stopped being home long before she stopped being Buffy Summers. By the time she’d danced to her most recent death, the lines were clearly drawn: the Sunnydale Hellmouth was hers; Los Angeles belonged to Angel. They’d hashed that out during the fiasco when Faith stole her body, slept with Riley, then escaped to LA and garnered Angel's protection. The lingering bitterness of multiple boyfriend betrayals had muted significantly between time and new body but was still undeniably there, resting in the back of Buffy’s throat. She glanced over again at Spike.

“You met Faith, right? That last year in Sunnydale?”

He lifted a brow. “Well, yeah. Got to know her fairly well.”

The sourness in her throat grew worse. “Just how well?”

Spike’s brow drew higher, blue eyes searching hers in the vague semi-twilight of the Los Angeles freeway at night. “I fought beside her plenty,” he said slowly. “And we were all holed up together for the most part. There wasn’t a lot of floor space with all the Potentials who fled our way, so we shared a corner once or twice.”

Well, didn’t that just sound cozy. Buffy hunched her shoulders and shifted slightly away, toward the window. “I see.”

Spike’s hand caught hers and tugged her back toward him. His gaze was narrow with suspicion. “If you’re trying to suss out whether I ever shagged her, the answer is no.”

“Did you ever want to?”

A deep frown drew down Spike’s brow. “Buffy, what’s bringing this on?”

Buffy forced herself to hold his eyes, sickening surety rising in her throat. “Just… will you tell me, please?”

Spike frowned harder.

“Please.”

“She was a hot piece, as you chits have a habit of being,” he said, irritation clipping his voice, “so I won’t lie and say the idea never crossed my mind. I know it bloody well crossed hers.”

Of course it had. Buffy's stomach lurched and her eyes fell to her lap, bitterness rising in surround sound.

Spike’s grip on her hand tightened, pulling her gaze back to his fierce one. “But all I saw when I looked at her was how much she wasn’t you. And she knew it. The few times she tried to start something, I buggered off.” His expression twisted. “She ended up making a boy-toy of Wood’s kid—once he got over trying to kill me.”

“Oh.” Buffy’s voice escaped in a relieved breath, and her fingers tightened around Spike’s cool ones as he eyed her defensively. “I’m sorry.”

Spike’s expression softened, his head tilting to the side. “It’s alright, luv. Subject’s a bit of a boggler, though. Mind sharing what that fun trip down memory lane was all about?”

Buffy shrugged, scooting closer across the seat to rest her head on Spike’s shoulder. “Just bad memories.”

Spike’s shoulder was stiff for a minute, as if he wanted to ask more, but he finally sighed and relaxed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Feel like that’s going to be the theme of this little holiday.”

Buffy mouth twisted ruefully. “Probably.” She let her eyes flutter shut. “Wake me up when we get to Xander’s apartment, okay?”

 

***

 

Xander, as it turned out, was not at his apartment. Buffy shifted anxiously from foot to foot as Spike held his ear to the door after three fruitless rounds of knocking. Finally, he shook his head, steering her back toward the staircase. “Sorry, luv. No heartbeat and no sense of him in the space. Must be out.”

“Must be.” Buffy exhaled wearily as she stomped down the stairs. “I really don’t want to get back in a car.”

Spike stilled as they passed back onto the sidewalk. “Might not have to, Slayer.”

Buffy followed his gaze toward the end of the block, where a dingy sports bar rested; one of the kinds that relied on the drunken humor of the locals to attract a patronage. This one was called The Office.

“He lives down the street from a bar? No wonder the AA never stuck.” She grimaced. “This probably isn’t going to go well if we have to try and talk to him there.”

Spike snorted. “Wasn’t bound to go well anywhere.”

“Well, I was aiming for ‘less bad.’” Buffy straightened her shoulders. “But it looks like we’re doing it the hard way.”

Spike curled his tongue behind his teeth. “That’s my Slayer.”

Buffy pulled out her cell phone, dialing Willow’s number. Willow had purposefully stayed in London to try and give Buffy a chance to chat alone with Xander, but  _alone_  was just not going to be an option at this point.

Willow picked up, her voice rounded with worry and disrupted sleep. “Buffy? Everything okay?”

“He’s likely in a bar near his apartment, Wil. Think we might need some witchy and best friend assistance.”

Willow sighed over the line. “The witchy I can do. I’m not sure I still qualify as a best friend, though.”

“Hey, you’re still better than me. I’m not even Buffy Summers anymore.”

There was a brief silence, then, “I’ll be right there. I’ll zero in on your phone’s GPS. Is there anything to your left if you’re facing south?”

“Nope. Just empty sidewalk.”

“K.”

Willow hung up the phone without another word, and Buffy took a step farther to the right. “She’s on her way.”

Spike nodded, his head turning away as he scanned the thankfully quiet street. “I heard, luv.”

Red lightning crackled next to them a couple minutes later, widening into an oval gash that split the air into dark nothing on the interior. Willow tumbled through the opening, straightening her long skirt and covering a yawn as she regained her balance. "Hiya, guys." She uttered a low incantation; the portal crackled once more and was gone. Her face scrunched up as she surveyed her new surroundings. “Wow, this neighborhood keeps going majorly downhill.”

“When’s the last time you were here?”

“Three– no, four years ago.”

Spike jerked his head toward The Office. “The pub always been there?”

Willow sighed. “Since before Xander moved in, at least. I’ve heard a lot of 'Wil! I’m working late at The Office’ jokes through the years. But it wasn’t until I came to visit the first time that I realized it  _was_ a joke.” She spread her arms helplessly. “I mean, it was better than thinking he was getting all drunk-y at work, but…”

Buffy winced sympathetically. “Yeah.”

Spike raised a brow. “Shall we then, ladies?”

Willow pasted on her long-familiar resolve face. “Let’s do it.”

The Office was a dimly lit space with a long bar to the right side, a smattering of pool tables to the left, and a stale smoke-riddled atmosphere that all but screamed  _we don’t give a shit what California law says._ It was fairly crowded, and the middle-aged guys playing pool closest to the entrance awarded the ex-Sunnydale crew askance looks as they slipped inside. Buffy ignored them; Spike flipped them a two-fingered salute.

Buffy glared at her vampire. “Stop that. We do not need to get into a bar fight right now.”

A smirk curled up Spike’s lips. “We’re on for later then?” When Buffy’s glare only deepened, he huffed and relented. “Wankers probably just thought it was a bloody peace sign.”

“Considering they looked confused, not angry, probably. But that’s not the point.” Buffy heaved an exasperated breath, pausing as she realized the din of the room had faded into silence following a sharp mutter from Willow. Buffy scanned the space—the bartender was frozen mid beer pour, the stream of alcohol holding itself unmoving in the air. The pool players stood like wax mannequins, the force of the pool balls arrested in mid-strike. Some guy in the middle of yelling at the baseball game on TV sat with his fist raised.

“Whoa. Nifty trick, Wil.”

Willow beamed. “Thanks. It took a long time to get the space-time displacement ratios right so I could customize the spatial limits of the spell.”

Buffy curiously tapped a frozen woman’s shoulder with a touch of Slayer strength. The body swayed slightly on the bar stool and rocked back into its original position. “Not sure how productive this reunion is going to be with a frozen Xander, though.”

Spike cocked his head as he stared down the bar. “Red didn’t freeze him, pet. He just hasn’t noticed yet—half in the bag, I’d wager.”

Buffy followed his gaze down the bar to where a stubbly, gray-haired guy sat hunched over in a hoodie and jeans nursing a bottle of beer, his profile sagging and sunken-eyed. Was Xander behind the guy? Then the guy shifted in his seat.

Oh.

Oh god.

Xander motioned at the bartender, frowning when the bartender didn’t move. “What the…” His voice was gruff and disbelieving. Then he stiffened in his stool and lowered his hand, projecting his voice louder. “Willow, I told you not to do that again.”

Willow’s expression flashed guilt. “Sorry, Xan. I–”

“I asked her to,” Buffy said flatly.

Xander’s brow furrowed and he turned in his seat. He looked even worse in the face front view. Red rimmed his eyes, and all the wrinkles that Willow worse gracefully just dragged down his jowls and marred his forehead. “Who are…” His bleary gaze landed on Spike, and he made a noise of derision. “Spike. So, you’re still around.”

Spike growled low in his throat. “Yeah, Harris, I’m still here. And I’ll be here long after your liver has finished turning to stone.”

Xander glared at him, his gaze flickering back to Buffy. “You know who you’re travelling with, kid?”

Buffy stiffened. Kid? Did Xander seriously just call her a  _kid?_  She swallowed down her irritation with effort; that wouldn't get them anywhere right now. “Yeah, I do, as a matter of fact. But I’m the Slayer—I can take care of myself.”

Xander let loose a sharp bark of laughter and slammed his beer bottle on the bar top. “The Slayer? Oh, that’s rich. So Spike is still chasing after the Slayer.” He shot Spike a loathing glare. “If Buffy only knew. But then, she was always smart enough to realize you were just trying to get into her pants. She, at least, knew you were just an obsessive creep.” His eyes lingered on Buffy and Spike’s close stances. “Doesn’t seem like this Slayer’s as smart.”

Spike shifted forward, his growl turning dangerous. “Harris, one more word and I’ll make you wish you’d—”

“Enough!” Willow’s voice rang through the frozen bar as she stepped toward her ex-best friend. “Xander, enough, okay? Spike’s been a part of the team for a long time. Just let it go.”

Xander stared at her mutinously before slumping in defeat. “Whatever.” He regarded them all warily. “So, the Slayer’s here, huh? Guessing this isn’t your usual ‘make sure the Xan Man’s still kicking’ social call.” He rose unsteadily from his stool. “Hate to tell you, but if it’s apocalypse season, I’m not your guy.” He paused, self-loathing flooding his features. “I’m more likely to get your new girl killed.”

Buffy stepped forward, drawing a steadying breath. “No, it’s not an apocalypse. It’s just… we thought it was past time to get the Scoobies reunited.”

Xander froze, regarding her warily. “And why would you care about that?”

Buffy took another cautious step forward. “Well, a lot of reasons, really. Not the least of them being that I used to be one.”

Xander squinted at her in confusion. “Huh?”

Buffy took another step forward, placing herself within touching distance, and said kindly, “When Buffy Summers died in 2001, she didn’t exactly just die: she got reborn. Bad side effect of Willow’s resurrection spell. She did the whole baby to high school graduate to college kid thing again. And then she got Called as the Slayer. Again. So now she’s in this kind of gross bar in L.A. staring at the guy who used to be one of her best friends and wanting…” Buffy faltered, her throat choking on a whirl of emotions. “Wanting him to know she’s here, and wanting to know that he’s okay.”

Xander stared at her blankly. “I think I’ve had too much to drink,” he finally mumbled.

“Stating the obvious,” Spike growled. “But you heard the Slayer right anyhow.”

Xander rubbed his eyes and squinted at her again. “You’re telling me that you’re…  _you’re_  the Buffster?”

Buffy nodded gently. “Yep. Just, you know, with twenty years of a different life and a new body.”

Xander looked at Willow with panicked pleading. “Wil, tell me this is some kind of joke.”

Willow shook her head slowly. “Sorry, no joke. That’s Buffy.”

To Buffy’s surprise, Xander didn’t look happy or even relieved. He looked horrified; tears streamed down his cheeks in a shocked wave.

“Xander?” She reached her hand toward him. “Xander, it’s okay.”

He stepped away from her touch, swiping angrily at his tears. “Okay? It’s not fucking okay. Jesus, Buffy. I killed you!”

Buffy dropped her hand in understanding. “No,” she said softly, firmly, the memory of burning friction filling her senses. “No, you didn’t. I killed me.” She paused, her muscles trembling. “ _I_ killed me.”

Xander gaped at her. “And that’s better?” he demanded. “That we ripped you out of heaven and made you so miserable that you wanted to—that you  _did_ —commit suicide?”

Everyone flinched. It was the first time, Buffy realized, that the word  _suicide_  had been directly applied to her death. She clenched her fists, grateful for Spike’s solid presence just behind her shoulder. “It’s not better… It’s just… it’s done.”

Xander chuckled darkly and turned away. “Right. And now you’re back and everything’s hunky dory?” He shifted back to her, his expression twisting. “Anya and I broke up.”

“I know.”

“Yeah? Did you know about all the screaming matches? And how she threw a shoe at me when I was feeling so…”—he gestured angrily, with a snarl—“so guilty about you dying, about me screwing up so badly that one of my best friends would rather die than live with what we’d done to her?” He drew in a breath that sounded like a sob. “And did you know I hit her during one of those fights?” He was shaking now, tears falling fast down his face. “ _I hit her_. Anya. And I… I couldn’t live with….” He shook his head violently and swiped at his tears again.

Buffy stepped forward before she could think better of it and wrapped her arms around Xander. He smelled of beer and stale smoke and cheap mouthwash. “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, Xan.”

His hands, rough from years of work, slid around her waist to clutch her like a lifeline, and another sob wrenched from his throat. Then he abruptly shoved her away, and she stumbled back. Spike’s arms caught her around her waist and pulled her close, a suppressed growl rising again in his throat. 

“I’m really glad you’re alive, Buffy. Now go back to your new life and leave me alone.” Xander swiped at his tears. “Go away, all of you.”

“But I…”

He ignored her, glaring at Willow. “Undo it, Wil. Drop the magic freeze frame.”

Willow looked uncertainly at Buffy. “Buffy?”

Buffy tried again, her heart in her throat. “Xander, please. I need you. I need all of you. I keep changing… I might keep changing for a long time. And I don’t want to make it through without you guys.”

Xander shook his head slowly. “No, you aren’t getting it, Buffster. The guy you’re looking for? He’s gone.” He started walking past them, toward the exit. “I’m leaving. Don’t follow me.”

“Xander, please.”

He turned his head just slightly and met her eyes, the shadow of a smile on his face. “You look good, Buffy. Way back, I’d still have been head over heels.”

Then he turned and was gone, the door jangling behind him.

Willow bit her bottom lip as they stood in the lingering silence. “So, um, that didn’t go well.”

Spike snorted. “Harris is a git. Always was.”

Willow gave him a disapproving look. “He’s struggling. He’s been struggling.”

“Yeah, and Buffy hasn’t been?” Spike’s hands clasped more tightly around Buffy’s waist. “Girl says she needs him and he walks away. That makes him a git.”

Buffy stared at the door, her vision clouded from the bar smoke and the onset of tears. “Me dying broke him.”

A snarl ripped Spike’s throat and he whirled her around in his arms. She stared into furious blue eyes, pale hands digging into her biceps. “Don’t you bloody dare feel guilty for dying.”

She smiled humorlessly. “Why not? Everyone else does.”

“No, Spike’s right,” Willow said shakily. “You have to deal with the bad things. You have to move on from them. Xander couldn’t—hasn’t—but that’s not on you, Buffy. And the Anya thing…” Willow sighed. “I don’t know if that was ever going work out. I think you dying just stirred up things already there.”

“I know, but…” Buffy crumpled and Spike pulled her tight against his chest, pressing soft kisses against her hair.

“It’s alright, luv.”

Buffy shook her head against the hollow of his neck, her fingers clutching his duster so hard that she was probably bruising the leather. “I don’t want to leave him to his nightmares.”

“Pet, you could slay every demon in his soul and he could still choose to not wake up.”

 

***

 

She and Spike stayed in California for two days after the reunion with Xander. Buffy didn’t try to see him again, but she slid a letter under his apartment door with her Pittsburgh address and enough money for a plane ticket, despite Spike’s muttered prediction that Xander would just use it to buy booze.

They spent most of the first day re-exploring LA together and checking out the new portions of the city that Angel’s apocalypse had destroyed. Based on the information Buffy gathered from Spike and Willow, it seemed Angel had pissed off some kind of evil interdimensional law firm owned by a cabal of powerful demons, and almost sucked the entire city into hell. Luckily, the Council caught wind of the event and arrived with the Slayer and pretty much every reinforcement they could muster right before the final battle—not to save Angel, whose trustworthiness was more than shaky by then, but to save the world. The Slayer at the time apparently perished while mortally wounding a dragon, which… well, pretty much topped the charts for Slayer heroic endings. Angel had gone down in the battle too, only to show up again when they were clearing corpses—in one piece and incredibly human.

Buffy stared down the street where the heart of the battle had apparently once been, now the corner between a skyscraper and a small park. “What was he trying to prevent?”

Spike snorted, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “Prevent? More like what he was trying to prove, Slayer. Needed to show whoever pulled the strings of his bloody ‘destiny’ that he was their good little righteous lad. What better way than to pick a fight way above his pay grade?”

Buffy stared at the new skyscraper, the moonlight glinting off the glass. “I guess he proved it.”

The second day they went to the Sunnydale Hellmouth.

Buffy had seen photos online, but to say they didn’t capture the reality of the cave-in was a mild understatement. The government had erected a massive barbed wire-topped fence around the entire city limits, and the road stopped a thousand feet back from the perimeter, with a dozen signs warning them about unstable and shifting ground. Past those were rows and rows of memorial placards, plastic flowers, and a historical marker denoting the sudden “sinkhole collapse." The remains of Sunnydale itself as seen through the fence were unrecognizable—cold, silent rock dotted with wire mesh, asphalt, and shards of metal.

Buffy’s fingers weaved through the metal of the fence as she stared into the wreckage. “It almost didn’t seem real that it was gone until now.”

Spike’s gaze seemed equally drawn to the remains. “I saw the sodding town collapse,” he said softly, “and it still doesn’t seem real some days.” He dipped into his duster pocket and drew out a handful of coins. He dropped them through the fence one by one. “Here’s to you, Glinda. And Faith. And Joyce.”

Buffy turned to him in confusion at the sound of her first mother’s name. “I thought coins on graves were for soldiers.”

“The tradition’s a sight older than that, Slayer. Started with the Greeks. A coin was given to the dead to pay the ferryman so they could cross the river Styx.” A wry grin quirked his mouth. “Doubt our birds would need it, though. If Glinda hadn’t charmed Charon by now, Faith would’ve shagged him into submission, or your mum would’ve hit the bloke over the head with an axe.”

A small, unexpected laugh escaped into the still night and Buffy found herself smiling even after the echoes had disappeared. “Oh, yeah. That ferryman wouldn’t have known what hit him.”

Spike’s hand found hers on the fence. “Ready to go home, luv?”

Buffy gave the hellmouth one last look. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t worry, we haven’t seen the last of our Xan Man


	33. Down Among the Sheltering Palms, An Ex-Honey Waits for Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title is taken (and mangled) from a song featured in my very favorite film, Some Like It Hot. It is used very humorously there, playing when a group of ladies hoping to meet eligible young bachelors in Florida instead come across a bunch of old tycoons. And on that note, one reunion to go...

“Of course a hellmouth had to open in fucking  _Florida_.” The amount of disdain Spike managed to put into two syllables was impressive.

Buffy raised an inquiring brow from where she was sitting cross-legged on their black leather couch, a cereal bowl cradled in her lap. Her lips twitched with amusement as she swallowed a bite of Cocoa Puffs. “What in the world do you have against Florida?”

Spike’s jaw clenched as he paced in front of the TV. “Guess where dear old granddad went off to.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I bloody well wish.”

Buffy shrugged, taking another bite of cereal. “No need to get wishes involved. It’s a big state—it’s not like we have to seek him out just because he’s in the general geographic vicinity.”

Spike halted, his expression conflicted. After a minute, he sighed, shoulders slumping. “No, I’d… hell, I’d better at least stop over for a minute.” He waved around the air in resignation. “The bastard’s still sort of family.” A line creased his brow as he met her eyes. “And don’t you want to see your ex-sweetie bear all human-ed up?”

Buffy snorted. “I spoke to him like four years ago when I was looking for you, remember? Didn’t go all that well.”

“So the final curtain’s come down on that soul-chasing-away perfect shag and Shakespearean romance, has it?” Blue eyes pierced into hers, edged with uncertainty. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who got plagued by ghosts of romantic competitors past. And after the whole Faith interrogation in LA last month, this was probably fair turn about.

“That was Buffy Summers’s ‘shag’ and romance,” she said calmly. “And the last little shreds of that ran away screaming when I was fifteen again and realized that I couldn’t—not to mention  _shouldn’t_ —even start to imagine boys my physical age as romantic partners, while Angel…”

“Looked at you and saw a child he wanted to ravish?”

Buffy wrinkled her nose and let her cereal spoon drop back into the bowl. “That’s not exactly what I was saying.” She gave him a knowing look. “And you were attracted to me back then too, so don’t throw stones.”

Spike gaped at her before his expression snapped to a glare. “Now, you wait just a minute.” He jabbed an angry finger in her direction. “Won’t deny I had a constant hard-on for you, but it had fuck all to do with your age. You were a feisty, brilliant Slayer and gorgeous to boot—much like now. Peaches never gave a damn about that, beyond you being his bloody ‘salvation.’ You remember how I told you Angelus liked to mock god by destroying virtue? Hate to tell you, luv, but Angel was no different, no matter how he might’ve convinced himself otherwise. He loved you, sure, but you were also a young, innocent girl and he wanted to screw your virginal daylights out.”

Buffy winced. “Gee, Spike, why not just light the entire fairytale book on fire?” She sighed. “You’re making me even more glad I don’t really remember losing my virginity this time.”

Spike stared at her. “You don’t remember?”

“Not really. I waited until college because—as we’ve just covered—there was a major ‘NO’ sign hanging over high school boys, and then I got really drunk at a party my first weekend at Pitt and slept with some rando guy. I think his name was Jake? Jack? Jackson, maybe?”

“Christ, Buffy.” Spike ran a hand through his already messed locks, shaking his head as he sank down next to her on the couch.

Buffy eyed him narrowly, shifting her cereal bowl to the coffee table. “What? I was allowed to sleep around the same as anyone else.”

Spike’s head snapped toward her, looking surprised. “Well, of course you were. I’m just sorry that bastard ruined your second first time for you, too.”

“I’m going to assume you’re not talking about What’s His J-Name.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “I don’t give a toss about that J-Whoever wanker.”

She shrugged. “I just thought it would be easier. And as a general FYI, the whole fetishism of virginity? That’s pretty much on a downward popularity spiral, at least for everyone who isn’t getting their information from ritual requirements written in 500 BC.”

Spike grimaced. “Yeah, I suppose.” He threw her a rueful look. “I’m showing my age, aren’t I?”

“All one hundred and whatever years.”

“That’s one hundred and sixty-eight, you cheeky bint.”

“You said one-seventy on your birthday.”

Spike shrugged unrepentantly. “I rounded.”

“You do realize that’s not how birthdays work, right?”

“What can I say, I’m a rebel, luv.”

Buffy held in a smile as she slid over and perched on Spike’s lap, facing him. “You’re ridiculous.”

Spike grinned at her, eyes sparkling. “And athletic and good looking.”

“And egotistical.”

His grin widened as he thrust his hips up, his erection nudging her through her lounge pants. “With reason.”

“It’s a really,  _really_  good thing I love you.”

“And my dick, too, Slayer. Don’t forget that.”

She laughed and pressed an exasperated kiss to his lips. “I couldn’t forget that if I wanted to. And happily, I don’t.”

“Well, that makes two of us.” Spike’s teasing expression fell slightly into something more serious. “Buffy… I know it’s not that big a thing these days, but if you end up transmigrating again and still want me when you’re all grown up… ” He trailed off, his eyes darting away and his jaw set in an embarrassed line.

Buffy eyed him in confusion before epiphany dawned. “You want to be my first partner next time, if there is a next time?”

His eyes flickered back to hers. “Your first and only, if I get a vote.” He brushed a hand through her copper curls. “It’d be an honor to love your body from start to finish.”

Warmth flooded through her, swamping her with cherishment and love. She curled an arm around his neck, fingers playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. “You’re such a romantic.” She leaned in for another lingering kiss, letting her forehead rest against his when she was done. “And yes, if I come back again and still want you—which I’m going to say is likely, by the way—then you’ll be my one and only.”

A true smile blossomed on Spike’s lips, his blue eyes bright and soft. It made him look young and vulnerable and entirely smitten. “God, I love you.”

“Does that mean you’re done freaking out over Angel and Florida?”

A soft growl rumbled through his chest. “Thanks for the dash of cold water, pet.”

“Oh, please. You’re still rock hard.”

“Well, you’re sitting on me.” Buffy wiggled on his lap, and he groaned. “Wicked firebrand.”

“Mhm.” She grinned and nipped at his earlobe. Spike’s breath hissed out, his fingers grasping her hips hard. “So where’re we off to, Watcher mine?”

“The Everglades to stop that stupid ritual at the new hellmouth, and then up north to see what’s left of Angelus.”

“Where’s he at, exactly?”

“Some poncy little artist’s community by the Gulf.”

“Really?”

Spike snorted. “Really.”

“Huh.” Buffy shifted on Spike’s lap again, her eyes catching his. “Angel doesn’t need to know that I’m me. I’m just going to be Meg Gallagher, Vampire Slayer to him.”

A startled grin crossed Spike’s face. “Yeah?”

“Yep.”

“Brilliant.”

 

***

 

It was the wet season in the Everglades, which meant that there was a river of half-submerged grass as far as their camping light beam could trace. The nighttime heat sank into every pore, and the air was thick with the high-pitched buzz of mosquitos, the rhythmic croaks of frogs, and the low squawks of roosting water birds. Buffy and Spike were paddling through one of the seasonally formed waterways in the heart of Everglades National Park, and Buffy was never sure if the dark shapes breaking the surface of the water around them were water lilies or the edges of alligators—at least until the light beam revealed several dark bodies around the sides of their canoe.

“Do I even want to know how many alligators are around us right now?”

Amber eyes turned back toward her, accompanied by a flash of amused fang. “Probably not, luv.”

“Oh god, that many?”

“And then some. No small amount of pythons slinking by, either.”

Buffy nearly dropped her paddle.  _“Pythons_? I thought those were only in rainforests.”

“Supposed to be. But that’s what happens when imbeciles decide dumping their damn pets in the wild is a brilliant idea.”

A shudder rolled through her. “Something tells me this hellmouth isn’t going to be a popular one.”

Though, to be fair to Florida, of the hundreds of hellmouths worldwide, only a couple were constant troublemakers. The Council kept a digital map of them, ringed in alert colors from green to red in terms of current danger, and only a couple—like the now defunct Sunnydale locale—were marked with the highest warning. According to Willow, Sunnydale had been an unusually active hellmouth—apparently due to the double whammy of the Mayor’s several hundred years of cultivation and the extra energy released when the Master tried and failed twice to blow the hellmouth wide open. For better or worse, Buffy’s ingrained expectation of constant apocalypse attempts was majorly inaccurate.

Case in point, the trouble here in the southern tip of Florida needed to be taken care of, but it wasn’t anywhere near world endage territory. (It was currently color coded yellow in Willow and Wesley’s system.)

“Do you think we’ll get lucky and our bad guys will get eaten by the wildlife before they can start their ritual?”

“One can only hope, luv.”

Sadly, the demons seemed to have made it through the swamps in one piece, and a handful of canoes were tied up outside a half drowned and crumbling temple that rested in between two massive cypress trees. According to Spike, the temple had been built around the start of the first millennium by the demons’ shamans as a way to mark themselves as the rulers of the new hellmouth when it erupted—essentially saving their seats on the bleachers.

Spike had switched off the light about a mile back, which left only a slim crescent moon to light the waterway and reflect against the crumbling limestone temple. Spike let their canoe quietly bump against the others and tied it off before turning to her. “Remember, Slayer: stay out the sodding spell circle and don’t get hit with their quills.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” She smiled cheekily at him.

Spike huffed and silently climbed from the boat with his axe. “Good thing I can’t go gray, or else being your Watcher would sure as hell put me there.”

“Oh, like Dawn wouldn’t have already done that years ago.”

Spike paused. “Fair point,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

Buffy followed him with a sharp nod, her hand enfolded in his so he could lead her safely though their mostly dark environs. It was almost startling to realize how normal it felt to let him guide her—something Buffy Summers would never have been able to say. But nearly twenty years and several months of patrolling with Spike sans powers had changed a lot even before he’d become her Watcher. And Spike was so far proving to be a very capable Watcher. He went to bat for her on a regular basis—telling Wesley and Wil exactly where they could shove their demands until the next day if Buffy was exhausted or injured; he kept toe-to-toe with Dawn, Bryan, and Giles during any scholarly conversation; and he continued to ensure that slaying wasn’t her entire life. He hadn’t convinced her to re-enroll at Pitt, but they were slowly working through a pile of classic literature, and he had an annoying yet endearing habit of goading her into debates as they patrolled. Several now-dusty vamps had gotten a really strong secondhand education on modernist art last week.

Unlike her life in Sunnydale, this life was one she felt okay living for a long time. Which was, very obviously, Spike’s devious master plan.

She squeezed his fingers as they entered the temple and he glanced back at her. “Everything alright?”

“Very.”

His mouth crooked into a bemused smile before he continued slinking forward into the dark.

They eventually found the inner sanctum, where a giant spell ring of fire smoked against the floor. There were about twenty demons—gangly and green, with owl-like eyes and heavy braces of quills cloaking their backs. Thankfully, they were invested enough in their chanting that they didn’t notice the new arrivals. At least, not until Spike lopped off one of their heads with his axe and Buffy sharply cracked two heads together.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said brightly, “but do you guys have a permit for that fire?"

The remaining demons shrieked and rose, and Buffy drew her sabre from its sheath across her back, her fingers humming against the Slayer-attuned metal.

In the melee, she almost fell into the circle of fire twice as she dodged flying quills, and then inevitably actually stumbled into the edge the third time. The familiar sensation of burning made her instantly recoil, but the fire held her in a damning grip. She drew in a sharp, panicked breath as bespelled flame wrapped around her ankle and slithered up her shin, scorching as it went.  _No, not again_.

Then Spike was there, yanking her free, fear and fury in his amber eyes. “Stay out of the fucking circle!”

She gasped in relief, limping back into motion and swinging her sabre at a lunging demon. “Noted.”

Spike growled his reply and turned so they stood back-to-back. “Let’s finish these wankers and get out of here.”

“Good plan.”

 

***

 

Three hours later, they’d left an exploded temple behind them (since, as Spike had gleefully informed her, the only safe way to destroy the spell circle was to destroy the base of it), made their way back to the rental car, and headed up the freeway to the closest motel.

Buffy gingerly sat on the edge of the floral patterned comforter in their thankfully ground-level motel room, wincing as she picked burnt denim out of her scalded shin. “Ow ow ow.”

Spike strode over and firmly tugged her hand away. “You’re going to pull off your skin that way. I’ll run you a cold shower.” He glared at her. “And next time, wear your damn suit.”

Buffy squirmed guiltily. “I didn’t have a chance to get it cleaned after we took down those gross spider things.”

“I noticed,” he said dryly, lifting her into his arms bridal style and heading toward the motel room’s tiny bathroom. “It’s been sitting in the dirty clothes pile for a week.”

“Like you’re one to talk, Mr. I Leave My Dirty Towels Everywhere.”

“Dirty towels aren’t part of my battle attire, luv.” He lowered her to the edge of the tub and turned on the shower, ignoring her clear pouting. “Now be a good girl and strip what you can, then get in the tub.”

Buffy sighed and tugged off her t-shirt, eyeing the water jetting out of the showerhead. “This is going to hurt.”

“Like the dickens,” Spike agreed. He started tugging off his own clothes, a devilish smirk lifting his lips. “But I know how to make it better.”

Anticipation rose in her belly, and she stepped into the freezing water with new eagerness, wincing as the water hit her burns. “Come make it better.”

Spike climbed in after her and sank to his knees, his attention firmly on the space between her thighs. “Your wish is my command, Slayer.”

 

***

 

They drove up to Bradenton the next evening—a small city right on the Gulf that was home to an eight square block radius of brightly colored galleries and artists’ abodes—where Angel had decided to retire.

She blinked as Spike parked outside one of the galleries—a renovated bungalow with a sign proclaiming it to be  _Hyperion Art Studio_. “Angel has his own gallery?”

Spike grunted affirmation as he got out of the car and motioned her toward the door. “After you, Slayer.”

Equal parts burningly curious and anxious, Buffy pushed open the door into the shop. The main room was spacious, the bright yellow walls covered with large format paintings and charcoal sketches—beaches and sunsets and city scenes, and a dozen human figures. Buffy stared at the closest portrait for a good several seconds before she realized she was staring at a likeness of Cordelia Chase. Whoa. Talk about a blast from the past.

“She’s a commanding presence, isn’t she?” came a quiet, masculine voice to her left, the sound tinged with wry humor. A small smile accompanied the question, the man stepping closer.

 _Angel._  Her ex was wearing a Hawaiian shirt over a slight beer belly, tanned skin glowing all the way down to his flip-flops.

Well, that was… different.

He didn’t seem to notice her shock, the crow’s feet around his eyes crinkling as he looked up at Cordelia’s portrait. “Cordy would have loved knowing she was the first thing everyone coming in here sees.”

Buffy was admittedly not paying a damn bit of attention to the portrait, her eyes glued on the ex-vampire she’d once desperately loved. He looked… smaller. She’d never realized how much of Angel’s authoritative presence was dictated by his demon, souled or not. While his voice managed confidence, his body didn’t have the inherent sense of lethal gravitas to back it up.

Angel drew his eyes away from Cordelia to flash her a smile. “I’m Angel, by the way.”

“What’s left of him, anyhow,” came Spike’s voice from behind her as the vampire finally decided to make his entrance.

Angel shrunk back immediately, his entire body tensing and his face turning dark. “Spike. What the hell are you doing here?”

Spike smirked, his stance completely belligerent as he strutted into the room, fingers threaded cockily through his belt loops. “’Lo to you too, Liam. Nice to see you’ve still got your manners.”

Angel’s nostrils flared; he grabbed a pointed paintbrush from the easel near the window then gave Buffy a hard look. “Gallery’s closed, girl. Go home.”

Spike turned back to him with an amused snort before Buffy could snap a reply. “That  _girl_  can knock you and me both into next Tuesday, mate. Try again.”

Angel stared between them for a moment before comprehension visibly dawned on him. He gave Buffy an uncomfortably long once over. “You’re the Slayer.”

Buffy nodded, smiling tightly. “Yep.”

Spike’s eyes were warningly bright, his smirk almost feral. “And she’s my charge. Liam, Meg. Meg, this is Liam, what’s left of my waste of a grandsire.”

Angel gaped at him, apparently too shocked to be angry about the use of his original human name. “You… Wes made  _you_  a Watcher?”

“Practically begged me to take on the tweed,” Spike purred viciously.

Buffy shot him a warning glare, but Spike just waggled his brows at her.

“ _Anyway_ ,” she interjected with a perky smile, “Spike mentioned you, and I figured I should come see the vampire who closed the Sunnydale hellmouth for myself.”

Spike’s smirk faded into a dark scowl.

Angel’s face lit with proud pleasure and his chest puffed out a little. “The Council’s still telling that story, are they?”

Buffy quietly considered the man in front of her. “They are. And the one about the apocalypse you caused a couple years later.”

Angel deflated like a popped balloon, his shoulders dropping. “Right.” He sighed and headed toward the checkout counter to the side. “That’s not really a story I want to talk about.”

Spike chuckled darkly. “Of course not. That one doesn’t paint you as the knight in shining armor.”

Angel shot him a venomous look. “The Council must’ve lost its mind to trust you with a Slayer.”

Spike shrugged uncaringly. “Pretty sure when the chips were down it was me helping a Slayer save the world when you were trying to end it, Peaches.”

Angel’s eyes closed in a slow, tense blink, his fists clenched against the counter. He inhaled a purposeful breath before meeting Buffy’s eyes. “Look, I’m not sure what you want to hear from me, but that part of my life is long over, alright? And it really is closing time for the gallery, so…”

Buffy's mouth twitched into a small, sad smile, the last threads of her past falling away. “Yeah, no worries. I think I got everything I needed.” She gave the aging man in front of her one last look, then turned toward the door. “Goodbye, Angel.”

 

***

 

It was a relief to finally get home to Pittsburgh again. After six months of world travelling, climbing up the creaky wooden stairs to her apartment with Spike was quickly becoming her favorite part of every journey.

“When we get in,” Spike murmured, “I’m going to fuck you all over the flat.”

Okay, maybe the stairs was her second favorite part.

Buffy threw him a mischievous grin. “Race you?”

Spike returned her devilish look. “Better run, little girl, before the Big Bad Wolf eats you right up.”

Buffy bounded up the stairs with a squeal, Spike growling lustfully as he gave chase, his speed slightly impeded by the fact that he was lugging their suitcase.

Buffy sprinted onto their floor, her wild laughter and half-formed ideas of ripping Spike’s shirt down the middle breaking off with a sharp inhale as the apartment door came into sight. She careened to a halt. “… Xander?”

Xander turned from where he’d been fidgeting on the welcome mat. He’d shaved recently and amazingly seemed sober; all told, he looked about ten years younger than when she’d seen him last month. He gave her a hesitant smile, anxiously tapping a hand on a large suitcase. “Hey, Buff.” He faltered as Spike came up beside her, but managed to hold onto his smile. “So… is there still room for one more in the Scooby reunion party?”


	34. Return of the Zeppo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those unfamiliar (like I was when I first watched the episode), the Zeppo was the stage name of the youngest Marx brother. He was often overlooked amidst the craziness of his elder brothers and almost always ended up playing the straight man, even though he was considered (by all of the brothers) to be the funniest one off-stage, and he flawlessly filled in for them as understudy when needed. The acts in which he appeared were often considered the Marx Brothers’ best. He later left to pursue his love of mechanics, and was a very successful engineer/inventor.

“So, after you left, things went downhill. Like, Olympic skiing speeds of downhill,” Xander said wearily, clasping a coffee mug loosely between his legs as he slouched in the armchair.

Buffy was adjacent on the couch, her hand hovering uncertainly by his knee. “Was that my fault?”

Xander’s mouth twisted. “Your fault? For what, Buffster, being alive?” He squinted at her, looking bemused. “It’s still sort of breaking my brain that it’s you inside this"­—he waved his free hand around—“younger, Willow-haired model. It’s way Audrey Rose.”

Buffy frowned in bewilderment. “Audrey… who? You mean the plant thing from  _Little Shop of Horrors_?”

Spike snorted from her other side. He’d mostly been keeping quiet until now, likely from some mix of trying to be respectful and pouting that their sexcapades had been interrupted. “No, luv. Different Audrey. Harris is talking about a film from the 70’s.” His good humor faded. “Girl burned to death and got reincarnated.”

“Oh.” Buffy forced a smile. “And here I thought I was special.”

Xander winced, though he tried for equally jocular. “I tell ya, Hollywood ruins everything.”

An awkward pause ensued, and Buffy tentatively asked, “So, the Olympics of badness?”

Xander looked up from sudden, deep contemplation of his coffee cup. “Oh. Yeah. That.” He shrugged. “After I left you guys, I went back home, smashed some of my stuff, then drank until I passed out.”

“So, your typical Tuesday night, eh?” Spike said acidly.

Buffy elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “Stop.”

Xander just sighed. “No, it’s fine. I probably deserved that.”

Spike’s chortled. “Probably?”

Buffy elbowed him harder.

“Ow. Bloody hell, Slayer.”

“ _Stop_.”

Spike pursed his lips but sat back with a low growl. “Fine.”

Buffy turned back to Xander to find him looking at them with a mix of resignation and distaste. “You’re really with him now, aren’t you?”

Spike stiffened next to her. Buffy slid a comforting hand back on her vampire's thigh, her gaze never leaving Xander’s. “Yeah, I am. This  _our_  apartment, Xan.”

Xander mouth grew slack, his eyes lost. “But…why?”

Spike stiffened further. He kept his mouth shut, but Buffy could feel the growl rumbling through him, vibrating down to where her hand was squeezing his thigh. “Because I love him. I think I was half in love with him as Buffy Summers by the end, but I wasn’t… it just wasn’t possible then. A lot’s changed.”

Xander chuckled mirthlessly, taking a long swig of coffee. “No kidding.”

Spike’s body was still vibrating. Buffy squeezed harder. “Look, Xan. I love you. Still. A lot. But I need you to be okay with this—with Spike and me—if you’re going to be around. He’s my boyfriend and my Watcher and my partner, and he’s not going anywhere.” Spike stopped growling.

Xander regarded her unreadably for a long moment before grimacing. “No, he never does. He’s like gum on your shoe.” His grimace deepened and he added, “Better than the other guys, I guess.”

The edge to his tone caught her. “Something I’m missing about one of my exes?”

Xander looked discomfited. “A few months after you died, Riley came back to town. He and his wife were tracking some kind of demon that was laying eggs in the area.”

That took a minute to sink in. “Wait.  _His wife_? But we would’ve only been broken up for like… a year.”

Xander’s smile was humorless. “Yeah. It didn’t really hit me until he started talking like you were some ancient history girlfriend, though. Like it was your fault you died because you didn’t listen to him and stop being the Slayer.” His voice cracked and his grip on the coffee mug grew dangerously tight. “I was drunk… I swung at him.”

Spike’s mouth parted in surprise. “Well, blow me, Harris. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Xander gave him a disgusted look. “And they claim I don’t have a filter.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Not that way, you wanker. That’s ‘blow me down with a feather,’ not ‘suck me off.’” His lips curled patronizingly. “Sorry to disappoint, mate, but you just don’t do it for me.”

“Fuck you, Spike.”

“Thought we just clarified that wasn’t happening.”

Buffy looked between them disbelievingly. “Okay, the testosterone levels were bad in London, but this is…” She rolled her eyes. “Seriously, do I need to put you two in separate rooms?”

Xander managed to at least appear chastised. “Sorry.”

Spike crossed his arms mulishly. “He started it.”

“Oh my god, are you twelve?”

He lifted a brow, a smirk on the edge of his lips as he thrust up his hips. “Clearly not, Slayer.”

Xander made a retching noise. “Remind me to not spend the night here. I think I might have to start drinking again.”

Buffy gave Spike a death glare. “No. That won’t be necessary.  _Will it_ , Spike?”

Spike sighed, slumping. “Oh, bleeding… No.”

Xander blinked, a low chuckle following a moment later. “You are seriously whipped.”

Spike shrugged. “It’s Buffy. Of course I am, Harris.”

Xander reached over and touched Buffy’s knee, a half pained, half fond expression on his face. “Yeah. I get that.” He gave Buffy a rueful smile. “The night after you came to LA, when I passed out? I woke up to your letter under my door.” He winced. “So I started drinking again.”

Buffy watched him uncertainly. “Please tell me that’s the downhill part.”

“Oh, there was more. A couple bar fights, some embarrassing scenes in a diner I’m now banned from, and a bunch of weird things in my apartment from Amazon that I don’t remember ordering. I even ended up in a ditch like a complete drunk stereotype. Life goal totally checked off there.”

“Xan…”

“But the ditch,” he continued with strained cheerfulness, “was actually great, because I was laying there and had this memory from way back of you and me, from when we ran into each other in the Bronze after graduation. You weren’t feeling that college was your thing, and I was recovering from the road trip that wasn’t. You remember that?” When Buffy nodded, he smiled faintly. “You remember what I told you to cheer you up?”

Buffy’s throat tightened, her mind casting back. God, that was so many years ago, but she still remembered how utterly adrift she’d felt. Thankfully, her second transition to college had been much smoother. “You said when you were feeling bad, you’d ask ‘what would Buffy do?’”

“Yeah. Because you were my hero. You never gave up, no matter how hard it got. Until you  _did_  give up because… because we…” He swallowed roughly, shaking his head. “It really sucks when you help kill your hero, you know? 'Cause that question… it stopped working. What would Buffy do _?_  Well, Buffy decided to take the first really fucking painful train out of town. And hey, I helped put her on it. So, it made sense for me to get on board, too.”

Spike eyed him narrowly. “That's supposed to be the good part?”

Xander’s small smile returned as he regarded Buffy. “Yeah, actually. Because, after all that, I remembered that you weren’t actually dead anymore. And  _what would Buffy do?_ … Well, it sure as hell wasn’t wallow in self-pity and a vomit-covered shirt. It was come back from the dead  _again_  because you’re a badass, and go find your friends. And I realized that it didn’t matter if I didn’t feel or look like the old me. That didn’t seem to be stopping you, with your whole new life and body thing.” He took another swig of coffee. “So I pulled myself out of the ditch.”

Buffy wrinkled her nose. “Are we talking metaphorically or literally?”

“I like to think I’m a ‘both’ kinda guy.”

“And… the drinking?”

Xander sighed. “I’ve tried to quit before and it didn’t stick, but the tenth time’s the charm, right? And my incentive is a lot better now.”

“Incentive?”

Xander smiled a bit nostalgically. “You’re the Slayer again, which means you need the Scoobies again. And though I can run a construction site while a few deep, I feel like helping prevent the end of the world requires slightly higher standards.” He looked down at his calloused hands a bit ruefully. “The Xan Man’s a bit worse for wear but he’s reporting for duty.” He looked up again, uncertain tears edged into the corners of his eyes. “I mean, somebody’s gotta bring the donuts, right?”

A relieved, grateful sob escaped Buffy’s throat. “The world is in serious trouble without donuts,” she managed, then launched herself onto the arm of Xander's chair to wrap him in a bear hug. “Welcome back, Xan.”

He clutched her back for a moment, then she heard a wheezed, “Uh, Buffy?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still like He-Man strong.”

“Oh! Sorry.” She released him with an apologetic smile.

He cautiously rubbed a hand down his ribs. “No worries. Just forgot to brace for impact. Out of the habit and all.”

“And you’re a bit softer around the middle these days,” Spike added dryly.

Xander huffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, dead boy. I’ve always been a soft, pillowy guy. Memory foam levels of comfy, as a matter of fact. Not that you’d know.”

“Thank Christ.”

“So says everyone. But you're still missing out.”

Buffy’s smile was so wide it was starting to hurt her face, but she really didn’t care, and couldn’t have reined it in if she tried. “You are missing out,” she agreed. “Xander hugs are the best hugs.”

Spike gave them both a tolerant, if disbelieving, look. “I think I’ll survive.”

 

***

 

Xander ended up on the couch overnight, with the agreement that they’d see tomorrow if Dawn’s family or Giles had space for a longer standing houseguest arrangement.

“Rupert will go on a rampage if he has to house Xander, mark my words,” Spike said with a wicked grin as he and Buffy lay cuddled in bed.

Buffy rolled her eyes from where she was sprawled across his cool chest. “You don’t have to sound so excited about the prospect.”

“Gotta get my evil kicks in somewhere, luv.”

Buffy barely managed to suppress another eye roll. “Well, sorry to burst your hopeful bubble, but I’m sure Dawnie and co. will take Xan in. And it’ll be good for him to be around a family instead of a crotchety bachelor who has an entire armoire of scotch.”

Spike’s mien grew serious. “You do know he’s on a high, right, Slayer? He’s gotten through the shakes and now he’s on the sobriety high. But he’s going to crash sometime soon.”

Buffy sighed. “I mean, I don’t expect this to be easy but… he’s here. And if I have my way, he’s going to stay here.”

That was, at least, Xander’s current plan, too. He was using up vacation time to be in Pittsburgh for now, with the plan of looking for a job while he was here, then heading back briefly to clear out of his apartment and quit his LA job.

“You sure that’s what you want?” Buffy had forced herself to ask earlier. “That’s a lot of change all at once.”

Xander just laughed. “After two decades of a whole bunch of not-change, I think I’m due.”

It was wonderful and optimistic… and carried a ton of possibility for something to go wrong. But that’s what friends were for.

“We’ll help him through,” Buffy said quietly. “And I was kinda thinking that he should meet my parents. As entirely bizarre as it is, he’s now the same age as my dad, and I think they’d get along really well, what with the making things hobby stuff.”

Spike grunted. “That’s not a half bad idea.”

“I only have good ideas.”

Spike raised a brow. “Says the Slayer whose shin is still a touch barbequed.”

She huffed at him. “Falling into the spell ring was  _not_  an idea. It just happened.”

“And the Duat portal? That just happen, too?”

“Shut up.”

Spike grinned and tugged her closer, nuzzling into her hair. “I love you, Buffy.” A pause. “And though it pains me to admit it, I’m glad Harris is here.”

Buffy reared back to stare at Spike in amazement. “You are?”

“Well, yeah.” He regarded her wryly. “You’re glowing, pet, you’re so bloody happy.”

Buffy smiled, her heart light. “I guess there’s that.” She tilted her head consideringly. “Although, if Duat was any indication, apparently I’m always glowing.”

“Always,” Spike agreed softly. “You always have and always will, Slayer.”

Buffy sighed, resting her head over Spike’s unbeating heart. “Especially if I keep transmigrating.”

One of Spike’s hands twined into her hair. “We’ll have the news soon enough.”

“Yeah.” Buffy exhaled noisily, nerves seeping through the evening’s happiness. Apparently, the Buffy Transmigration Research Team (so dubbed by Willow and shorthanded to ‘BTRT’) had found some news related to her transmigration, and Willow was portalling in next week to help deliver it. “Spike?”

“Yeah, luv?”

“What happens if Willow and the others figure out how to stop it—me transmigrating?”

Spike's brow furrowed. “Not sure I follow.”

“I mean… what will happen to you?”

Understanding parted his lips. “Ah.”

Buffy waited for more, but he was silent, a muscle ticcing in his jaw. Sudden, terrible certainty hit her like a freight train. “You’re going to dust yourself when I’m gone, aren’t you?”

She didn’t even get a denial. Blue eyes pierced hers unapologetically. “The same minute, if I have my way.” He shrugged beneath her. “I’ve lived without you twice. I don't care to do it again. Not if I know you’re not coming back around.”

“But…” She swallowed against the growing tightness in her throat. “You’ll have everyone else… and Dawn–”

“Is grown and happy,” he said sharply. His eyes narrowed. “And don’t you even sodding try to talk me into another promise.”

Her heart sounded too loud in her ears, the silence slightly ringing. “But I…”

At her clear look of devastation, Spike sighed. “You’ll be dead already, it’s not like you’ll care. I’ve lived for a long time, alright? I’ve done about bloody everything. Trust me, my demon’ll go to hell well satisfied.”

The knife in her chest twisted further at the idea of Spike in hell. “No.”

Spike's smile was mirthless. “Sorry, firebrand, you don’t get a say in this.”

They stared at one another. When Spike didn’t so much as blink, Buffy finally broke eye contact. This was not a battle she was going to win tonight. Instead, she tried to muster a trace of knowing humor. “Is this part of your plan to get me to live for a really, really long time?”

Spike’s lips quirked. “Wasn’t, but I’m not about to knock the advantage.”

Buffy pressed a hard kiss to his collarbone. “Good. When it comes to your plan, do me a favor and play dirty, okay? Selfish bastard, evil demon dirty.”

Spike grinned. “Luv, you act like I ever intended to do otherwise.”


	35. Daughter of Ra

“Holy schmoly, Dawn, I think you have more books than Giles.” Xander stood blinking in the middle of Dawn and Bryan’s library in the back of their foursquare-style home. The space was a mass of heavy, dark wood and even darker leather chairs—Spike’s years of influence no doubt promoting the latter—and nearly as large as Giles’s living room in Sunnydale had been.

Giles scoffed into his lowball of scotch from the corner, where he was flicking through some kind of very old and musty book. “Yes, well, when one absorbs an entire Watcher’s library, it’s bound to inflate the numbers.”

Xander lifted baffled brows. “Huh?”

Willow shrugged as she pulled out her laptop from her bag, newly arrived using the London-Pittsburgh portal expressway. “Nadine—the Slayer whose death Called Buffy again—went down with her entire team, including her Watcher, Oksana. Spike, as the new active Slayer’s Watcher, technically inherited all of Oksana’s reference materials.”

Buffy ran a finger down a row of book spines as Spike sank into one of the leather chairs nearby. Pride and sorrow warred in her throat. “Which means about half of these books are mine and Spike’s.”

“Except our apartment is too bloody small to hold them,” Spike added.

“So Bryan and I are storing them,” Dawn finished.

Xander gave a firm, approving nod. “Gotcha. So this is the new Scooby watering hole.”

Buffy paused in surprise, her gaze darting around the room. Along with the shelves of books, a box of jelly donuts sat on the coffee table with a smattering of sodas and tea; scotch was in a corner cupboard, mostly out of sight but well-used by both her previous and current Watcher. The classic Scooby research set-up. “I guess it is.”

Truth be told, once the inherited books had a new and more accessible place to go following Dawn and her family’s arrival in Pittsburgh, it had only made sense to meet where the references were. Plus, Dawn and Bryan could both attend research sessions if they stayed in the house with the kids.

Xander sank into a free chair and grabbed a soda. He looked more worn than when he’d left last week to go back to California, but he was clearly trying hard to be in good humor. And as of yesterday, he was now a permanent resident of Pittsburgh and an official houseguest in the Summers household. “Well, I gotta say, you can’t beat the location for this one. All I have to do is walk down the hall and presto.”

Willow gave him a disapproving look. “For you, maybe. Some of us have to cross the Atlantic and about three different dimensional barriers.”

Xander grinned at her. “The downfall of being the big cheese, Wil. Maybe you should talk to ol’ Wesley about moving the Council Headquarters stateside.”

Giles choked on his scotch.

Spike chortled, shifting his hands comfortably behind his head as he lounged. “You go right ahead and mention it next time you talk to Oxford, Red. But I want a copy of his reaction on camera.”

Willow snorted a laugh that she barely covered with a hand over her mouth. “Oh no, buster. I am not coming within ten miles of that mentioning.”

“A pity,” Giles managed, his lips twitching.

Dawn looked up from where she was frowning at a scroll as Bryan came through the doorway. “The kids are down?”

Bryan’s smile was wry as he slid onto the arm of Dawn’s chair and gave her a quick peck on the lips. “For the moment.”

“Little hellions, that pair,” Spike said with a grin.

“As encouraged by their vampire uncle, I’m sure,” Buffy added dryly.

Spike’s grin widened.

“Hey, have no fear,” Xander said magnanimously, “their new live-in Uncle Xander will help balance the scales.”

Spike quirked a mocking brow. “Because you’re a saint, are you?”

“Hey, I’ve got my demons, fangface, but at least I’m not literally one.”

Spike’s shifted into gameface with a low growl. “Just means you’re all bark and no bite, Harris.”

“Okay,” Willow interrupted loudly, fighting back a yawn, “that’s enough of that. It’s like 3 a.m. my time and I’m pooped, so let’s keep the snark to a minimum.” She waggled her fingers in warning when Xander looked like he was about to make a last comment, waiting until he sighed and settled back in his chair.

“Right,” he said with forced ease. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Willow turned to Spike. “Lose the bumpies.”

Spike grimaced but shifted back without complaint, to Buffy’s rising amusement.

“Wil, you’ve really got the management thing down pat.”

Willow exhaled noisily, blowing a lock of graying red hair from her face. “Years and  _years_  of experience.”

Giles took another swig of scotch. “Well, I salute your success. It’s far better than I ever managed with you lot.”

Dawn giggled from her seat. “It was still worse anytime you left. Do you guys remember when Anya’s troll ex-boyfriend destroyed half the Magic Box while Giles was in England? I thought his head was going to explode.”

Both Willow and Xander grimaced. Giles just covered his eyes with his free hand. “I had, until this moment, managed to block out that horrifying memory.”

Dawn grinned impishly. “Oops?”

Willow valiantly cleared her throat. “Moving past that, um, embarrassment…” She paused, gaze turning directly to Buffy. “Are you sure you don’t want your parents here for this?”

Buffy nodded. “I want some time to process whatever it is that I’ll have to break to them.”

“Righty then.” Willow took a deep breath. “So, easy things first. After Buffy’s trip to Duat, and the new Slayer title we learned from her time there—‘Daughter of Ra’—Wes and I pulled together some of the most Egyptology proficient Watchers plus Bryan to figure out if that title had any relevance to Buffy’s situation.”

Spike lifted a brow. “Is that your way of saying it does?”

“You got it,” Willow affirmed. “Daughter of Ra is another name for Ma’at.”

Buffy frowned and slid down into Spike’s lap. Spike’s arms banded comfortably around her waist. “What’s a Ma’at?”

“You are,” Bryan said easily. “Rather, the Slayer line is.”

Buffy blinked. “Gonna need a bit more than that.”

“Ma’at is personified as a young goddess,” Willow added, “but she’s more than that. She’s a belief system—morality, balance, justice, honor. She is the scales of death—she is the law. And her opposite is Isfet, the embodiment of evil, injustice, and chaos, which she is tasked with destroying.” Willow’s brow rose meaningfully. “Sound familiar?”

“Slayers and demons,” Buffy murmured.

“She is also often paired with Thoth, an embodiment of wisdom,” Bryan continued. “One who restores sight, is the father of academics, and who ‘makes use of’ Ma’at.”

Giles lifted a brow. “Her Watcher, I presume?”

“Exactly,” Willow said with supreme satisfaction. “From what we can decipher, the ancient Egyptians had a large number of Slayers in their midst through the years. The Slayer was often heavily involved in their justice system, and for the years when there wasn’t a Slayer, priests who worshipped her stood in her stead.”

Buffy nibbled her bottom lip in thought. “So the Slayer was public. Super public. Negative secrecy. Does that mean demons were out in the open, too?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Dawn said fervently. “Most ancient societies weren’t nearly as segregated as we are.” She sighed wistfully. “That would make research so much easier.”

Spike’s leg jiggled impatiently. “Interesting as this is, Red, what does it have to do with Buffy transmigrating?”

Willow’s gaze shifted to her lap, her fingers twining anxiously together. “It matters because it means Buffy is irrevocably tied to the Egyptian gods’ supernatural law.” She tried for a weak smile that petered out halfway through. “The good news is that we figured out how to complete my resurrection spell and stop Buffy from transmigrating again.”

Xander stared at her incredulously. “Well, geez, Wil, I hate to critique your speechifying, but I vote that you should’ve started with that.”

Spike’s grip on Buffy’s waist tightened almost painfully and she didn’t dare breathe as she waited for the other shoe to drop. Willow’s face wasn’t exactly broadcasting happy fun times.

“What’s the bad news?” Buffy finally managed.

“Um.” Willow's face scrunched up in extreme discomfort. “Releasing you from the cycle will send your spirit straight to Osiris’s court when you die.”

Xander spread his hands in confusion. “So, what, do we need to get her a supernatural lawyer?”

Giles gave him an irritated look. “You are as inane as ever.”

“Hey, somebody’s gotta bring the lighthearted stuff.” Xander puffed up in rising offense. “And why’s that such a bad idea, anyway? You guys can’t tell me there’s not some kind of dead heroes defense law firm out there.”

Willow smiled despite herself. “Godly debt court isn’t exactly legalese. It’s more of a monarchal ‘off with his head’ kind of thing.”

“Yeesh.”

Bryan shifted on the arm of Dawn’s chair. “The resurrection spell getting interrupted was actually fortuitous in that way. Osiris can’t collect what he can’t get ahold of.”

“And, as terrible as it is,” Willow said, flushing guiltily, “I was sort of hopeful that Nadine’s death at Ammit’s hand might have satisfied the discrepancy. It didn’t, though.”

Buffy frowned. “Why didn’t it?”

Bryan gave her a rueful look. “Because your spirit isn’t like your predecessor’s. At the time of the resurrection, you were a twice-dead Slayer. And while physically that doesn’t mean much, it means the shape and power of your spirit is very different from your sisters.”

Giles drew in a sharp breath. “When Buffy died the first time, I did a bit of theorizing, and came to the conclusion that the entry of her essence into the transdimensional corridor had strengthened her core being.”

Bryan nodded. “You have it exactly, Rupert. When Buffy died both times, the Slayer essence separated from her individual spirit, and her spirit used the energy of the dimensional space to fill in the gap the Slayer essence left. However, when she was drawn back to life, the Slayer essence was also drawn back to her—the first time because the separation hadn’t entirely completed by the time of resuscitation, and the second time because Willow asked for both parts of Buffy to be returned.”

Buffy’s blood ran cold. “Wait. So… if I’d been dead any longer the first time, I might’ve come back without my Slayer powers?”

Bryan nodded gravely. “There’s no ‘might’ about it. You would’ve.” He shrugged. “Instead, you came back stronger.”

“Which means,” Dawn concluded with narrowed eyes, “no other Slayers are a strong enough substitute?”

“That’s right, honey.”

Xander frowned. “Okay, entirely hypothetical question here, but what if Osiris got ahold of another Slayer or two? Would that fill the debt?”

The room fell into silence.

Finally, Willow offered a soft, “Maybe?”

Bryan made a noise of disagreement. “I don’t think so. The spirit formations would still be different. Osiris is exact with his debts. Not that it seems to keep him from trying."

Buffy shook her head violently. “It doesn’t matter. No more Slayers are paying for my existence.”

Giles gave Xander a dark look. “Not to worry. That is not an actual option on the table for consideration."

Xander held up his hands defensively. “Hey, I said it was hypothetical!”

“Indeed.” Giles sighed and removed his glasses, leaving them to dangle by the temples of the frame. Every wrinkle came into focus as he closed his eyes in a long blink. “In summary then, to ensure Buffy a safe transition toward heaven after death, we cannot release her from her transmigration cycle until the debt to Osiris is repaid. A debt we do not currently have an adequate means of repaying.”

Willow nodded tightly. “Right.”

Buffy exhaled slowly, shakily. Apparently, all the things most people got to call immutable—unquestionable facts of life and death—were going to continue skipping her right by. “So that means I’m stuck for now, unless I want to chance non-existence.” Spike’s growl vibrated up Buffy’s spine, and she twisted on her vampire’s lap to stare into his worried face. “Which I’m not going to chance,” she added firmly.

Willow sat up straighter in her chair. “We  _will_  find a way to fix this, Buffy. I promise.”

Giles nodded determinedly, replacing his glasses on his nose. “You are not alone in this, my dear.”

“The Xan Man’s here for you,” Xander added.

“We’re here, too,” Dawn said, squeezing Bryan’s hand. Her eyes narrowed into a glare. “And I swear to god, if you come back again before we fix this, I had better be one of the first people to know.”

A helpless laugh escaped Buffy's mouth. “You’ll be the second to know. Right after Spike,” she promised. She pressed her palm against Spike’s cheek and he nuzzled into her touch, never taking his eyes from her.

“You know I’ll be here as long as you are,” he swore lowly, his gaze intent and dark. “Until the end of the world.”

Buffy nodded, letting her focus shift around the room. Every face was filled with an almost astounding level of determination and love—everyone a little bit older, wiser, and together again at last.

She turned back to Spike with a smile. “Until the end of the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say about this fic? It has surprised and challenged me as a writer in so many ways and it has been an absolute pleasure to share this ‘verse with you all. 
> 
> That said, I’m not anywhere ready to be done with this version of our favorite characters. This story is going to the first installment of a series called The Transmigrator Chronicles. So it’s goodbye for now, but not forever.
> 
> Much love,  
> OYB


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